


Shot by Cupid's Bullet

by cx_shhhh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fake Marriage, Guns, Knives, Major Character Injury, Mild Sexual Content, Minor Character Death, Rule 63, mutual simping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:48:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29680041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cx_shhhh/pseuds/cx_shhhh
Summary: Grantaire is great at pretending to be someone she is not, but when she and Enjolras have to pretend to be married for a job, she might have to reconsider.Honestly, eliminating their targets might be the easiest part of this mission.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Éponine Thénardier, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 20





	1. Another One Bites the Dust (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> Make sure you read the warnings. Everything of mine will have a happy ending, I promise you.
> 
> Thank you, [Malin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleAreScary), for beta-ing this.

In a shady alley in Paris, a woman stands waiting.

She is a rather stunning blonde with a slender but with a toned physique, dark brown eyes, and somewhat of an innocence in her dainty nose and full lips turned down in a pout that disguises the sharp and cynical intelligence in her gaze. Dressed in a scandalously low-cut green crop top that truly leaves little to the imagination, a short black leather skirt, fishnet stockings, and shiny black patent leather stilettos and sporting a mermaid tattoo on her tanned, flat belly, it is quite obvious that she is a hooker of some sort. She carries a small handbag in one slender, ladylike hand, which has a wide silver bracelet, studded with black crystals, adorning her wrist.

Soon enough, a shiny motorcycle approaches, looking very out of place in the trashy alley, and the woman saunters up with a confident air. The man on the vehicle removes his helmet to look her up and down appreciatively, focusing on the generous amount of cleavage exposed by the crop top.

“Darling, I love your hair,” she purrs, giving him a smile full of hidden promises. “Is the rest of you just as sexy?”

The man’s eyes gleam, and he replies, “Perhaps. What’s your name, sugar?”

“Jeanne, at your service,” the blonde says in a smoldering voice. “And what shall I call you, darling?”

“Call me Le Cabuc,” he answers with a smirk. “Now, what is in that bag of yours?”

She opens up the bag to reveal a box of cigarettes, a lighter, a phone with condoms tucked in the wallet-case hybrid, and an unassuming tube of red lipstick. Satisfied that she has nothing dangerous on her, Le Cabuc gestures for her to put on the extra helmet and helps her onto the back of the motorcycle.

Soon, they pull up to a building with tinted glass windows. It looks just like any other building in the block, but it turns out to be an expensive hotel of sorts. The elevator is taken up to the very top floor, where the man is likely staying. The prostitute called Jeanne follows closely behind him, wide eyes taking in the gilded luxury of the hotel. The carpet is lush, the lighting is low, the doors are wooden and embossed with golden script, and a security camera follows every step of her heels. She resolutely doesn’t look up at it and fiddles with her bracelet before entering the room.

While her client shrugs off his leather jacket before stepping into the bathroom, Jeanne looks around the room and slowly puts on another coat of lipstick. When Le Cabuc comes back, she is already lying on the bed, blonde hair fanned out around her head on the pillowcase. A sultry smile makes its way onto glossy red lips. He pounces, pulling her into a kiss and darting his tongue out to lap at her sensuous mouth.

Almost immediately, he doubles over in pain, taking labored breaths as hives break out all over his tan skin. The woman, with all her sex-kitten-seductiveness replaced by a cold and calculating smile, watches him indifferently as he shakes like a leaf, sweat beading across his brow and pouring down over his face.

“You _bitch!_ What did you do to me?!”

He tries to slap her but howls in pain when she twists his arm behind him in one fluid movement and snaps his wrist, piercing the air with a sickening crack.

“Oh, my dear Claquesous. There is so much blood on your hands that my own ledger seems squeaky clean in comparison. Serial killer, hmm? Creative, I’ll give you that, but killing women after you hook up with them? Wow. The disrespect,” she tuts. “If only the military was enough for you. Then I wouldn’t know everything about you from your age and the organization you work for… to your deadly allergy to penicillin.”

The blonde laughs mirthlessly, kissing her fingers and then pressing them to his skin again, causing him to howl.

“W-Who are you?” he wheezes, coughing up a lung.

“Aww, now that’s information that will cost you your life,” she replies with a pretty pout before giving him a deadly smile. “But then again, maybe putting you out of your misery would be merciful enough.”

The woman bends down to whisper something in his ear, watching as his eyes widen in horror before snapping his neck with a quick jerk of her hands.

“Huh, and now I have a dead body on my hands. Thanks.”

She rolls off the bed and quickly erases all traces of her DNA from the corpse by burning one of her “condoms” and letting whatever is left behind fall over it.

“Ah, the joys of science. Joly sure knows her stuff.”

Extracting the burner phone from her bag, she dials and speaks at the tone, “Target dispatched. Coming out in thirty.”

This leaves her enough time to crush the phone under one high heel—because she does happen to have a thing for the dramatics—and stuff the remnants back into her handbag before going into the bathroom, where she removes the wig and hairnet, revealing thick black curls that tumble loosely down her back. Brown contacts are removed, and she blinks her blue eyes a couple times to get rid of the feeling. Another “condom” is melted into a viscous liquid that she slathers over her skin, removing the fake tan and tattoo and exposing unblemished, milky-white skin.

Finally, she opens the mirror cabinet to remove the briefcase she had stashed there a couple days before, containing a black pinstripe blazer and matching pencil skirt. She changes out of her hooker getup and shoves it all into her briefcase before exiting the bathroom and putting all of Claquesous’s weapons and electronic devices into it as well. Making sure that the security camera is still shut down, she walks out into the hallway, taking her time to not seem suspicious to other tenants. Her heels click on the tiled floor in the lobby before she steps out the door and into the waiting black car parked outside.

* * *

Three days later, Grantaire reports for work somewhere in the middle of the bustling city, walking into the office of Musichetta, her boss and friend, who looks up from her laptop.

“Hey, R. Looks like you’ve made the news again,” she says, turning the screen towards her. “Elusive Serial Killer Found Killed in Hotel Room.”

Grantaire snorts, “They really don’t sugarcoat those titles. Oh, the irony. Clickbait, am I right?”

“Sure, if it wasn’t actually clickbait,” Musichetta replies, rolling her eyes.

“Well, I can’t say that I particularly enjoyed _every_ aspect of that assignment, but eh. Another one bites the dust. So what’s my next commission?”

“I’ll forward you the message. To cut to the chase, your target, Felix Tholomyès, wants his biological daughter, Cosette Fauchelevent, the head curator at the Louvre, back for his campaigning needs. Something like a ransom against his primary rival, Valjean, who also happens to be her adoptive father. Oh, and he’s also in collaboration with the head of a criminal organization that Claquesous was a part of-”

“Yeah, yeah. Political bullshit,” Grantaire waves her hand. “And how do I come to play here?”

Musichetta glares at her and continues, “Since both she and her wife, Éponine, are targets, you are going to protect one of them while the person you’re working with assists the other. I can see the questioning look in your face, so I’m just going to tell you that you’re working with Enjolras.”

The look on Grantaire’s face must show, because her friend smiles sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, but Joly and Bossuet are both busy. And to be fair, you haven’t actually gotten to know her yet,” Musichetta tries reasoning. “All you two have done so far is bicker like children.”

“If that’s supposed to be comforting, I promise you that it’s not,” Grantaire grumbles. “Fine, fine. I’ll take it.”

“Oh, and another thing before I forget.”

“Yeah?” she asks, waiting for another bomb to drop.

“You have to pretend you’re married.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always welcome. They're like tiny bullets of love... okay, I'm gonna stop now.


	2. Under Pressure

Enjolras sighs, sinking lower into her bathtub and feeling the warm, sweet-scented water fold over her body. And then her phone rings from just out of reach. Eyebrows twitching in annoyance, she stands up with a groan and plods to the sink, pulling a towel around her and drying her body as she does so.

“Courf?”

“Enj! I must have disrupted bathtime, if your grumpy tone is anything to go by,” Courfeyrac chirps. She is observant, but all of them are, as specially trained assassins and everything.

“You have two minutes to explain why you’re disrupting, then,” Enjolras mutters.

“You remember Éponine right?”

She hums in agreement, “Yeah. Her wife works for the Louvre, and her dad is all sorts of fucked up.”

“Technically, both their dads are fucked up, so there’s that. Speaking of, I’m also fairly certain Tholomyès-”

“Ew.”

Courfeyrac shushes her and continues, “-is enlisting the help of Thénardier’s goons, so good luck.”

Enjolras exhales, “Sounds easy. There must be some sort of catch if you’re calling me instead of just sending me the details.”

She can hear the grin in Courfeyrac’s voice when she speaks up again.

“Oh yeah, ‘Chetta called. You’ll be working with R for this next assignment.”

Her eyebrows twitch again, this time in a deeper annoyance. Grantaire is a very talented woman, but her methods are less than pleasing. She hates calling anyone “slutty,” but it was Grantaire whom she walked in on in their last commission together, with a sleazy businessman’s head between her thighs. Their _target’s_ head between her thighs, specifically. Enjolras has to admit that that is definitely one way to finish someone off, but she had just barely managed to while he was still in his euphoric state. Oh, and let’s not forget the image of Grantaire’s face contorted with pleasure stamped in her mind ever since. A few choice words had been spoken by Enjolras in her mindless state, and she also had Grantaire’s face stricken with hurt stamped in her mind since.

“As long as she doesn’t interfere, I suppose.”

“Wow, that was a lot easier than I expected,” Courfeyrac remarks with a surprised note in her voice. “You didn’t even put up a fight.”

“Look, I’m just here to get the job done. If she wants to fuck or be fucked in the process, that is not my problem,” Enjolras says, but her biting tone betrays her.

“Actually, it kinda will be your problem, seeing as she’s basically gonna be your wife for this. Letting her get around might raise suspicion.”

Enjolras sighs, “And that’s what you should’ve led with. That was more than two minutes, so goodbye.”

She hangs up before her friend could whine into her ear. Perhaps a longer bath might be in order.

* * *

Grantaire, using her real name for this mission, arrives at the luxury apartment of her charge. She wears a knee-length black dress and, of course, her trusty stilettos, just in case she isn’t armed otherwise, though that scenario is highly unlikely. She has an entire arsenal on her body right now—knives in the lining of her bra and a gun strapped to her thigh.

Cosette, a petite woman in a pink blazer, answers the door, letting her in after she checks all the security cameras in the hall. Grantaire sinks down into the nearest chair, crossing her legs casually before pulling out her laptop. When she finishes, she smiles in satisfaction and looks up to finally address her company.

“The name’s Grantaire, or R for short. A pleasure to meet you, madame,” she says, leaning in to kiss her host’s cheeks in greeting.

“It’s a pleasure to have you here,” Cosette replies. “‘Ponine! Where are you? In fact, where is your partner?”

Grantaire stutters, “I- we’re not- ah, you meant for work. Um, she should be here.”

Cosette only grins at her and winks at her wife, who had just appeared in the doorway to the living room. Éponine gives her a kiss before walking over to greet Grantaire. She is still taller than the assassin in her heels and gives her a once-over before nodding.

“Yes, I think she’ll do,” Éponine announces before poking a finger at her chest. “No funny business with my wife.”

Grantaire gingerly moves the accusing finger like it personally offended her and mildly replies, “That won’t be a problem as I’m supposed to have one of my own.”

Right on cue, the door opens, causing her to tense and reach for the hem of her dress, ready to lift it in polite company regardless of modesty. Only Enjolras walks in, removing aviator sunglasses and, of course, looking hot as hell. All 180 centimeters of her clad in a black pantsuit, which only serves to make her look even taller. When she gestures around her, a glint of metal from her sleeve gives away the hiding place of a blade.

“Nice place. Could have better security, though. As in _keeping the doors fucking locked_ ,” are the first things she says after looking the others up and down.

“Enjolras. It’s not like you to be so late,” Grantaire says in a smug voice.

“And it’s not like you to be early. I had prior business to attend to, namely the shady-looking men lurking right outside.”

And okay, no matter how much Grantaire wanted to hate her, she has to admit that Enjolras is extremely good at what she does. A tiny slip-up can be forgiven, right?

“Perfect. Now that pleasantries have been exchanged, let’s show you two around, shall we?” Cosette interrupts before any verbal smackdowns can occur.

She shows them her study, Éponine’s study, and the master bedroom. Grantaire makes sure to look straight into every single security camera.

“And this,” Cosette gestures to the other door, “is your room.”

Honestly, Grantaire should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. When her charge opens the door to reveal one singular king-sized bed, dressed with black covers and pillows, she sighs. Many romance novels have been written with the sharing-a-bed trope, but she knows better than to expect anything but a bad outcome. Chancing a glance at Enjolras, she is disappointed to see that her partner’s face is carefully blank, not giving away a single thought. She was always good at that too.

“Great, now while you two get settled in, I have work to do,” Cosette says, ushering them into the guest room.

Grantaire kicks off her heels and sits down in one of the two large armchairs, feeling her butt sink down into the plush seat. If the chair is this comfortable, she might just sleep in it instead of trying to negotiate with Enjolras.

After about an hour, Enjolras speaks up, from the other side of the room, “Combeferre just made some adjustments to the security system you put in place earlier. Now only with voice, fingerprint, and retinal identification will anyone be allowed entrance from outside, unless someone from within comes to escort them. The database includes Cosette, Éponine, and the two of us. If anyone tries to forcibly break in or tamper with the system, we’ll be alerted. The other tenants of this building just happen to be away on vacation or something, so everything should go smoothly.”

The fact that Enjolras is so thorough with her work makes Grantaire feel a little faint, so she can only nod dumbly in return.

“Alright,” she mumbles before clearing her throat and asking, “Weapons? I saw you were armed earlier.”

Enjolras flicks her wrists and replies, “No less than three blades on me at all times. If I don’t have any, I’ll find one, whether it’s a letter opener or a switchblade. I have a gun, as you know, but knives are less obnoxious.”

She slides out the knife hidden in her right sleeve and gives it a careless toss, flicking it open. Grantaire rolls her eyes, knowing that she’s just showing off now, twirling it between long fingers.

“And you?” Enjolras asks in return. “Unless you just happen to enjoy flashing everyone who walks in.”

Feeling her face go red and moving her hand to the holster strapped to her thigh, Grantaire huffs, “What I enjoy is none of your business.”

“It is my business when it compromises productivity.”

“Okay, I get that my tactics may grind against your righteous sensibilities, but it’s my body to use however I please, and if I use it as a prostitute or a common whore or as a mindless killing machine, you have no right to judge,” Grantaire says, trying to maintain a sense of tranquility. _Think about kittens, flowers, and kittens playing with flowers._

“And do you like it? Do you take pleasure in being used as a weapon or as a body to fuck?” Enjolras presses, stepping into her space. “Or is it because doing so makes you feel wanted?”

All calming thoughts immediately dissipate, and Grantaire rises abruptly, slapping her partner across the face without even realizing that she had raised her hand. A red mark is left behind, the only remnant of her sudden anger and a symbol of her own strength. Immediately, shock floods herself at her brash actions, and she flees to the bathroom in search of an ice pack and a damp towel. She takes a deep breath, not even needing to look at herself in the mirror to know that she probably looks like a mess, face flushed and blotchy if the tears pooling in her eyes are anything to go by.

_Did she have to say it?_

Grantaire pushes her hair out of her face and adopts a somewhat neutral expression, a direct contrast to her racing heartbeat and internal turmoil.

Enjolras looks up at her from her laptop, taking in the vulnerability exposed from under a thin layer of professionalism. Well, they definitely crossed that line minutes ago. She turns to go back to whatever she was pretending to read. Pretending, as in staring at her screen without actually absorbing any of the information while trying to ignore the dull throbbing in her cheek. She supposes she deserves it after letting her emotions rule her mind.

What does manage to surprise her is the feeling of soft fingers under her chin that she would have noticed had she not been so focused on pulling herself together. Enjolras tries meeting Grantaire’s eyes, but she doesn’t look back at her, instead concentrating on holding the ice pack wrapped in the towel to her cheek. Instead, Enjolras stares at her flush, stark against her normally pale skin, and at her lashes, thick and dark, hiding blue eyes.

Before she can say anything, Grantaire blurts out, “I’m sorry. That was totally uncalled for. I don’t usually lose my cool like that, if I ever had any in the first place, and I have no idea what came over me.”

“No, if anything, I should never have been so disrespectful of you in the first place. I have yet to see the wide range of your talents, so you’re right in that I have no place to judge. You’re a smart and beautiful woman, and I shouldn’t suggest otherwise,” Enjolras replies, covering the hand against her face with her own and allowing her eyes to soften.

Grantaire ducks her head again, feeling uncharacteristically shy at words that could be lies. Other people have complimented her in the past, but they were either inebriated or desperate for someone to sleep with. That or she had always been in disguise, and her targets only really looked at the heavy makeup she had on or at her chest or ass right before she had to kill them.

Right now, Enjolras is looking straight into her eyes, and it makes her heart stutter. Grantaire thanks the gods above that she did not put on any makeup other than her emotional support lipstick (not the penicillin one) because her face would be a mess of mascara right now. The hand over hers is warm and something of a comfort, and Enjolras is still staring at her, careful mask over her emotions slipping.

Grantaire realizes she should say something instead of being awkward.

She lets Enjolras take the ice pack and offers a hand, “Truce, then?”

Enjolras grasps her small hand within her own and gives her a tiny smile, getting one in return. It illuminates Grantaire’s whole face, lighting up the intelligent depths of her blue eyes. She stands up, giving her partner a shoulder to balance on as she puts her shoes back on and admiring the sudden confidence that slides over her like a protective shield when she straightens. Together, they head back into the living room for dinner.

Cosette and Éponine are impeccable hosts, polite, gracious, and witty. Conversation flows freely during the meal of a tossed salad served with a light vinaigrette and grilled lemon chicken. They laugh around mouthfuls of yogurt and then over the brims of their glasses filled with some sort of fruity alcoholic beverage.

Grantaire giggles with a hand over her mouth while keeping her eyes and ears peeled for any potential disturbances. She looks to her side and nearly sighs in relief to see Enjolras much more relaxed, leaning back in her chair with her legs in something quite similar to a manspread. _Thank God. Otherwise, we might not even survive a single day as a “married couple”._

She also pushes down the sudden urge to climb into her partner’s lap and curl up, blaming the alcohol for her semi-muddled brain. Her common sense tells her that she isn’t even drunk in the slightest and that it takes much more than a single glass to get her anywhere less than laser-focused.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go over safety procedures. Until then, have a good night,” Grantaire says, standing up and walking down the hall to The Room with Enjolras close behind.

They spend the next few hours checking weapons and security camera footage. Suitcases are unpacked, and clothes get hung up in the shared walk-in closet. Grantaire’s dresses and blazers are up on hangers next to Enjolras’s suits, and her many pairs of heels next to Enjolras’s flat shoes.

“I’ll never understand why you bother killing your feet like that every day,” Enjolras quips.

“No, I guess you won’t. Some of us like to feel tall, and my ankles can withstand it,” Grantaire sniffs. “I guess I should be grateful you don’t like wearing them because it would be ridiculously difficult just to look you in the eyes while talking to you.”

A glimmer appears in Enjolras’s eye, something that looks almost like humor.

“Would it help if I lean down?”

“Okay, now you’re just making fun of me,” Grantaire mumbles, absently cleaning her gun just to have something to do with her hands.

“When have you ever known me to make fun of someone?” Enjolras asks, pressing a hand to her chest in mock disbelief.

Grantaire snorts, “Are we just gonna ignore all those corrupt politicians or what?”

“In my defense, I never _made fun of them_ , per se. They just happen to always be making fools out of themselves.”

“And me? Don’t I always make a fool of myself?”

Enjolras opens and closes her mouth a couple times, and Grantaire would savor the moment that she finally rendered her speechless, but she has to continue, “You don’t have to lie to me. I know I’m a fool.”

She gets up and paces around the room, both comforted and distracted by the sound of her shoes against the laminate floor.

Finally, her partner speaks up with a voice lacking any leftover traces of humor, “No. I stand by what I said earlier. You’re maybe more than a bit reckless, but it would be hypocritical of me to accuse you for that.”

Grantaire lets her have the last word, dragging herself to the bathroom to change into something more comfortable to sleep in. Looking down at her satin shorts and camisole with little kittens printed over the matching set, she sincerely hopes Enjolras will already be asleep when she exits the bathroom.

No such luck.

She pointedly avoids Enjolras’s piercing gaze as she tugs back one of the covers to peel it off the bed. Grantaire gets so far as to take it off completely, ready to drag it to her chair when Enjolras stops her with a hand on her arm.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Uh, going to get a good night’s rest?”

“And you plan on doing that in a _chair?_ ” Enjolras asks incredulously.

“I guess. Unless you’re willing to cuddle me or something,” Grantaire mutters, feeling her skin burn up from where she is being held.

“Don’t be an idiot. The bed is big enough for both of us, and if you’re uncomfortable, we can use some of the many pillows to set up a border. Besides, I’m a light sleeper, so if anything happens, I’ll get it.”

_Did she just ignore the part where I mentioned that I cannot stay still in my sleep?_ Grantaire asks herself before resigning and sliding under the quilt. She immediately sinks into the marshmallow-like texture of the mattress and pulls the sheets up to her chin. This is admittedly much more comfortable than likely waking up with a crick in her neck.

Grantaire makes a noise that sounds embarrassingly like a _meep_ when Enjolras gets in next to her, arranging the pillows until they’re separated from head to toe by a fluffy partition. Grantaire snuggles into her own pillow, thinking about how there are only mere centimeters between them, yet she can’t even see her partner’s face.

“Goodnight,” Enjolras murmurs, and the lamp on the other side of the room goes dark.

“Goodnight.”

* * *

Enjolras opens her eyes when sunlight starts streaming through the window, surprised at how well-rested she feels. Well, well-rested is _one_ thing she feels. She also happens to be feeling a body tucked close to her own, soft and supple, and two firm mounds of flesh, covered in a smooth material, under her hands. In her sleep-muddled state, she squeezes by instinct, sighing at the nice experience, before jolting wide awake when something that sounds suspiciously like a whimper comes from someone who is definitely not herself.

“Oh my God. _Oh my God._ ”

She hurriedly takes her hands away from Grantaire’s butt, eliciting a whine that almost sounds needy. Her partner, evidently still very much asleep, rolls over and wriggles backwards into the source of warmth. Which happens to be Enjolras. She can only let herself be manipulated to Grantaire’s every whim when the woman pulls one of her arms over her waist and hugs her hand to her chest. For a trained assassin who should know what to do in every scenario, Enjolras thinks her mind spontaneously combusts at how her hand is nestled in the space between Grantaire’s breasts, how her nose is flooded with the lush scent of Grantaire’s hair, and how her arms are pulling Grantaire’s body close until they’re pressed together.

On the floor, the pillows that formerly created the one boundary between them now lay strewn across the room. Enjolras isn’t exactly sure who is to blame for that, but all she can really focus on is the rhythmic rising and falling of Grantaire’s chest and lets herself close her eyes again.

* * *

Grantaire feels very warm and, more importantly, very _safe._

The bed underneath her is like a fluffy cloud, and the person behind her is solid. Wait. The only person who would even be in bed with her is Enjolras, which means…

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck _fuck_ ,” she mutters, trying to force herself _away_ from Enjolras instead of closer. “How the hell did this even happen?”

“Honestly, I think you subconsciously fought the pillows and then forced your way through,” a voice behind her remarks, a little husky from sleep and containing a lighthearted tone.

Grantaire turns around as best as she can while still in her partner’s grip, and her eyes fly wide when they end up face-to-face. A pair of blue eyes meet her own, and an eyebrow arches inquisitively.

“This is a dream. This is a dream, and I’m gonna wake up any moment now because this is just too embarrassing, what the fuck.”

“It’s not a dream because my alarm is buzzing, and I can’t get to it while my hand is still trapped in your grip,” Enjolras replies.

“Oh, oh fuck. Sorry.”

Grantaire sits up, shivering when the quilt falls away from her bare shoulders. She desperately wants to snuggle back under the covers with Enjolras and stay there for an eternity. Instead, she gets out of bed, regretting it immediately when the cool morning air hits her legs as well and jumping into the shower. The bathrobe her hosts have provided is fluffy and feels nice, and she walks out, refusing to meet Enjolras’s eyes when she tells her that she is done with the bathroom.

Enjolras takes her clothes in with her, leaving Grantaire the bedroom to change in, so she grabs an oversized sweater and denim shorts, grateful that today is a Sunday, and that they won’t have to start working undercover right away. Outside, she can hear Cosette walking around, by the sound of her light footsteps before another pair joins her.

When her partner finally emerges in a red T-shirt and jeans, Grantaire wants to curl up in a ball and wallow in the loss of her sanity. Nobody should be allowed to look that good in casual clothing. The worst part is that she doesn’t know if it is jealousy that she is feeling anymore or something else.

“Uh, sorry for invading your personal space,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras stops where she is tossing pillows back onto the bed.

“Don’t worry about it. You did give a fair warning after all.”

“And here I thought you just ignored it or something,” she huffs. “I could’ve just slept in the chair or even in the living room.”

“And here _I_ thought you were done trying to wreck your spine,” Enjolras retorts.

“It’s nice of you to care about my well-being, but nobody gives a fuck in this area of business. I might die tomorrow or ten years later, and the only person to care would be the one who kills me.”

In a flash, Enjolras crosses the room, and for all her good reflexes, Grantaire is shocked out of her skin when she is pushed against one wall and feels the kiss of a cool blade against her neck. She knows Enjolras sees the surprise in her eyes and hears the little gasp that comes out of her mouth before she tamps it down and covers it with nonchalance and a poor excuse of a smirk.

“Oh, are you going to be that person? Shame you’re not someone who actually likes me enough to care.”

In a low voice that Grantaire is just slightly ashamed to think is a turn-on, Enjolras growls, “ _I care_. Joly, Bossuet, ‘Chetta, all our friends. They all love you. I’m sick and tired of this self-deprecation as a sorry attempt to push people away from you, so stop being so selfish and stop being so reckless.”

Grantaire nods as best as she can without cutting herself on her partner’s knife, hating that her knees go weak without Enjolras holding her up. Maybe it’s the sudden relief of not being in immediate danger anymore, but she has more than a sneaking suspicion that it is rather the proximity and the blue-eyed glare staring into her soul.

“I will if you promise the same,” she says, willing her voice not to wobble. “And before you protest, I know that you’re just as, if not more, reckless as I am.”

“Fine.”

* * *

Breakfast is a silent affair, save for their quiet chewing and the clinking of silverware on white dishes. Enjolras feels the questioning gazes of both Éponine and Cosette on her without needing to look up, and when she does, she averts their eyes in favor of staring at her partner. Grantaire keeps her head low, bent over her plate, a stark contrast to the woman with a sharp gaze and an even sharper tongue. In fact, her whole image has changed, the sweater making her look softer around the edges and her slightly damp hair framing her face and starting to curl.

In short, Enjolras has never seen this side of her during previous missions, and now that she has, she wants to see more.

“Alright. I think now’s as good a time as any to go over procedures,” Enjolras finally says, interrupting the silence. “Éponine, I’m assigned to you, so tomorrow, I’ll accompany you to the law office. I don’t know how likely it is that either of you will find an explosive, but make sure to check every single package, paper, et cetera that is handed to you.”

She demonstrates with the device in her hand, placing a small grenade and her phone on the table next to her plate and showing them the message that appears before tucking the weapon back in her pocket.

“We’ll also be notified how long until it detonates for the sake of evacuating as many people as necessary. Don’t let either of us from sight if there aren’t any other people around, and don’t blow our cover. If anyone asks, Grantaire and I got married after being high school sweethearts and then going to university together.”

Enjolras slides a small wedding ring across the table to her partner and lets her examine it before a look of understanding flicks over her face.

Grantaire settles it on her finger, admiring it for a moment, and continues, “Multi-purposed ring. Our friend really stocked you up on gadgets, huh? Cosette, I’ll be one of your new staff members, and before you ask, I’ve done work on art pieces before. Same rules apply, blah blah blah. I’m always armed, even if you can’t see it, like now, for instance. In addition, the best way to travel is in a large crowd, which should not be difficult in a city as populous as this one. It would allow us to blend in and would prevent anyone from following us too closely. Ergo, we’re walking.”

Cosette nods slowly, taking this all in. As someone who has worked in a museum, Enjolras assumes that she knows that security should be taken seriously. Grantaire crosses one smooth leg over the other and goes back to drinking her tea.

“Oh, and if anyone threatens you, we have alarms.”

Grantaire disappears into the kitchen with Éponine to help clean up while Enjolras goes over just a few more details. The rest of the day is spent in the apartment, nobody really daring to step outside. Their charges leave, whether to kiss or to work, Enjolras has no idea, but their business isn’t really hers until she has to protect them anyway.

Enjolras sits down on the couch and opens up her laptop to read up on her undercover job for a little while her partner ambles away into their room. After a solid hour, the words begin blurring together, so she rubs her eyes, wondering what Grantaire could possibly be up to. When she stares at the same sentence without retaining any of the information for another ten minutes, she decides that taking a break would be the best course of action.

She cracks the door to the guest bedroom open, not quite sure what she might be preparing for after basically molesting Grantaire in the morning before pushing her up against the wall. Enjolras winces. That isn’t exactly a great track record to have in the span of twenty-four hours. It wouldn’t be a surprise if her partner hated her guts after all that on top of their history together.

Enjolras considers herself prepared for everything and anything, but nothing could have prepared her for the sight that greets her when the door is opened all the way. Sprawled across the bed on her belly and kicking her feet up, Grantaire is reading a book with her chin propped up on her hands. Without her permission, Enjolras’s eyes immediately trace the slope of her back all the way down to her perky butt. That very same one that she involuntarily groped earlier.

Feeling like even more of a perv, Enjolras sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, and luring Grantaire’s attention away from her book. In a movement far too graceful, she flips over onto her back and grins at Enjolras who is still hanging around in the doorway. Her mouth, pink and void of any makeup, is pretty, and turning over only serves to make her dark hair fan out around her head.

“Need something?” Grantaire asks, slinking off the bed and stretching like a cat. She yawns, and even that is a sight to behold.

“I don’t think so. Just taking a break,” Enjolras replies, sitting down heavily into one of the armchairs by the window and popping her neck.

Grantaire puts her book down and walks over, bare feet silent against the carpet, and with a question in her eyes.

“Let me?”

Enjolras hums noncommittally, and her partner takes that as consent to step up behind her, take her head between her hands, and lightly rub her temples. Slowly, the stress and tension leak out, soothed from Grantaire’s ministrations. Enjolras is only slightly embarrassed to admit that the sound she makes is very similar to a moan, and when she opens her eyes again to thank Grantaire, she is greeted by a shy flush across her porcelain cheeks.

“Thanks,” she says dumbly when Grantaire’s thumb brushes her cheek.

“Uh, you’re welcome.”

Grantaire returns to her book, this time in something of a proper sitting position, before migrating through a variety of them, even hanging upside-down off the bed until her face turns red. Enjolras brings her laptop into the room to charge and only raises her head when she hears a sudden giggle from the other side of the room.

Enjolras stares at Grantaire incredulously as she laughs relentlessly, wheezing until tears stream from her eyes. There truly is no escaping the rabbit hole that is catching feelings for her partner, is there?

“Sorry… I just… _she sounds exactly like Joly!_ ” Grantaire exclaims between hiccups. “Ignore me.”

_Impossible_ , Enjolras thinks and continues watching her partner read under the guise of looking through trial documents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Domestic fluff? Right?


	3. Keep Yourself Alive

Grantaire follows Cosette into the offices at the Louvre, admiring all the displays as they walk down the Denon Wing. _Liberty Leading the People_ stands proudly on one wall, and she can’t help but compare her to Enjolras.

“Grantaire, this is my team. Marius, Feuilly, and Jehan are the ones that you’ll be working closely with,” Cosette announces.

“Nice to meet you all,” Grantaire says, politely shaking their hands. “I look forward to working with you.”

Perhaps this assignment must be much more complicated than she originally expected if Feuilly and Jehan are here. At least, should anything happen, she will have people to assist her. Before she could ponder why the others are here any further, Jehan takes her by the hand excitedly and starts explaining everything like they just met.

Feuilly chimes in, “I like your shoes. Very chic.”

“Feu Feu works on a lot of the sculptures, but other than that, it’s not a lot of hands-on stuff,” they say. “Do you have any nicknames we can call you by?”

Grantaire fights the urge to roll her eyes because _Jehan, you should know this,_ and smiles instead, replying, “I go by R sometimes.”

Suddenly, everything is much more comfortable with familiar faces, and Marius… well, Marius trails after Cosette like a lost puppy. He seems smart and charming in a bumbling sort of way, but oblivious enough not to realize that he has been working alongside two trained assassins and that another just joined them. _Oh well_ , Grantaire supposes, as she winds her long hair into a bun and pins it in place, that this situation is for the best and hopes that he stays that way.

* * *

At roughly the same time, Éponine introduces her colleagues to Enjolras.

“This is Bahorel,” she says curtly before shutting her office door behind her. “And Courfeyrac. Ladies, Enjolras.”

Enjolras hides her mild surprise carefully and shakes their hands good-naturedly.

“Pleasure.”

Well, seeing her friends in her new place of work is certainly pleasant, and hopefully, Courfeyrac would tone down her usual excitement, not that Enjolras has anything against it. It’s just that she can be quite-

“Lively, aren’t we today?” Courfeyrac asks, sauntering over to Enjolras’s desk. “Ooh, that glare is sexy, hot stuff.”

And why the fuck is Courfeyrac flirting with her?

“Now now, Courf. Don’t antagonize the newbie. Besides, she’s married,” Bahorel chides, grinning cheekily and looking pointedly at her ring. Right.

When this mission is over, Enjolras will use them for target practice. Okay, that’s a blatant lie, and they know it.

“Tell us all about your spouse!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “They must be extremely cute to put up with you.”

The forces in Enjolras’s traitorous brain and heart democratically overrule her better judgement and force her mouth to smile and her eyes to soften when the image of Grantaire laughing while dressed in her fuzzy sweater and fluffy slippers appears in her mind. Then she remembers the satin kitten pajamas that really left little to the imagination and groans internally because, really, who in their right mind would make something so adorable and, for lack of better wording, sexy? At the identical coos from her friends, she snaps out of her Grantaire-induced stupor and remembers that she has to say something.

“Yeah, she’s the cutest,” Enjolras replies, and the most pathetic part is that she isn’t even lying through her teeth like she’s used to. “And the most beautiful person I’ve ever met, too.”

Courfeyrac gives her a shit-eating grin and winks, which she carefully ignores in favor of working on the case open on her laptop. For the next few hours, she splits her time equally between watching for suspicious behavior from suspicious people, looking over files that she has read at least ten times yesterday… and daydreaming about her “wife”.

* * *

Outside of the café where they agreed to meet for a late lunch with their charges in tow, Enjolras notices a man dressed in a business casual outfit staring at them intently out of the corner of her eye. Something about him seems shadier than she would like, and he looks vaguely familiar, which is definitely not a good sign. The man looks away to light a cigarette when Grantaire and Cosette approach, confirming her suspicions.

Éponine pulls her wife in for a kiss, so Enjolras follows suit after getting a look of confirmation from her partner, kissing Grantaire briefly on the mouth and ignoring the sudden fluttering feelings igniting in the pit of her stomach. She moves her lips to her cheek and then her ear, taking the opportunity to whisper in it.

“Your target, behind me.”

Grantaire suppresses a shudder and gives a barely perceptible nod, playing along, so it looks like the two of them are sharing a tender moment as she looks straight at the assassin’s shadowed figure through half-lidded eyes while Enjolras kisses her jaw gently. Well, there are benefits to being wedded to her after all! Imitating Enjolras’s actions, she trails her lips to her partner’s ear.

“Got him covered. During the meal, I’ll take a trip to the ladies’ room and dispatch him while you watch those two,” Grantaire whispers back. “Oh yeah. Watch the food. Wedding ring, UV light, poison phosphoresces.”

Enjolras nods, and the two of them break apart to see Cosette and Éponine looking at them in amusement.

“One would almost think that you two were a real couple,” Éponine mutters under her breath before declaring, “That was quite cute, but wouldn't a simple kiss have sufficed?”

Enjolras and Grantaire glance at each other. Well, they had been convincing at least. Too convincing, so convincing that for a fleeting moment, they _were_ a young couple deeply in love, instead of just acting. However, those fluttery, exhilarating feelings quickly disappear under carefully smoothed out expressions when their target moves to follow them into the café. They have their work cut out for them.

About ten minutes after they settle at their table, Grantaire excuses herself to go to the bathroom. Grabbing her purse, she walks into the tiny room in the back, reapplies her lipstick, and blots it with a lace handkerchief. When she passes by the man’s table, she “accidentally” drops the handkerchief next to him without looking back. After a moment of sitting down, she tells her friends that she needs some fresh air… as fresh as Paris could offer anyway.

Once outside, Grantaire feels someone tap her on the shoulder and turns to see the man in the suit. She smiles; her target had taken the bait.

“You dropped this, madame,” he says as he holds out the handkerchief.

Thanking him graciously, Grantaire proffers a slim white hand with a smile. The man moves as if to shake it, but suddenly, she finds herself with a knife pointed at her torso, and the man removes his ridiculous sunglasses to reveal an unfortunately familiar face. Babet, while not as powerful as some of Thénardier’s other goons, is still a formidable opponent. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to recognize Grantaire, or he would’ve stabbed her already.

“Now, little lady, we’re going to make a trip,” Babet says, leading her away from the café at knife-point. People hurry past, not bothering to give a second glance to the woman being led into some dark alley. Grantaire knows it would be foolish to move her hands; he would injure her in a heartbeat, so obediently, she walks into the alley. But she has a plan in mind.

When they reach their destination, Babet takes out a length of rope and binds her hands behind her back. Grantaire grins coyly and pushes her chest forward.

“Ooh, into that, aren’t we, monsieur?” she asks, and her expression turns into one of smug satisfaction when her kidnapper lowers his eyes to her cleavage. _Sleazy bastard._

In the instance that Babet’s grip on the knife goes slack in distraction, Grantaire kicks the weapon out of his hand. It sails through the air, and she catches it securely in her right hand behind her back. The smile on her beautiful face would be sweet and winsome had it not been so cold.

“Haven’t you ever learned _never_ to underestimate the little lady?” she asks in a mockingly disappointed voice, slicing through the rope with a flick of her wrist. She crouches into a fighting stance with the knife pointed at Babet. At least nobody will be around in a back-alley street to witness this and call the police.

Babet, shocked that this delicate-looking young woman was able to break free, aims at her hand, which holds the knife. Grantaire, anticipating his move, drops her stance and executes a sweep kick at his other leg, letting the offending one sail harmlessly over her shoulder. She knows that she cannot afford to spend a large amount of time fighting with him; in all likelihood, he is not the only one around, and she has to conserve her energy and get back to Cosette as soon as possible. She fights back mostly in defense, and to keep him distracted so that he would not notice her reaching up with her free hand and pulling her hairpin free. Her hair, now falling freely down her back, whips Babet in the face as she spins around, only serving to distract him further by its sweet scent and silky texture.

Suddenly, in mid-punch, he feels his muscles seize up. Collapsing heavily onto the ground, Babet clutches his arm before the burning pain gives way to a chilling numbness that spreads through his body. With difficulty, he turns his head, seeing a finely decorated pin embedded in his bicep. He curses himself for not realizing it before when the woman went with him much too obediently and with too much of a cool head.

As he starts choking and wheezing, body choking spasmodically, Grantaire only gives him a cold look and collects the knife and rope, putting them in her purse. When he stops convulsing, she plucks her accessory from the corpse and stashes that in her bag as well. She brushes off her skirt, runs her fingers through her hair, and walks away. In time, the local police will find the dead body, find out that he’s one of the nation’s most-wanted criminals, and get it transferred to Musichetta’s department. Ah, the perks of being under the guise of working for the government.

* * *

Enjolras is becoming restless.

Grantaire did not return yet when the food arrived. Her ring confirmed that it was not poisoned, and now Enjolras waits at the edge of her seat, eyes hawklike and focused on the door. When her partner still doesn’t show up in the next ten minutes, she sets her teeth, torn between staying with her charges and going after her.

Noticing Enjolras’s inner turmoil, Éponine says, “Go. I have some self-defense training.”

She quickly strides out the door and is immediately met by a grisly sight the next street over. The “businessman” from before lies on the floor with foam between his blue lips. Enjolras suddenly remembers Grantaire telling her about all her weaponized accessories and can’t help but smile fondly. Speaking of Grantaire, there she is, looking slightly less impeccable as she cleans the body of any traces of her DNA. Enjolras sighs in relief to find Grantaire safe as she spots her and smiles, walking towards her.

_Or is she?_

A deep, jarring sense of danger strikes her, a feeling that she has learned throughout the years and countless assignments to never ignore. Grantaire seems to feel it at the same time because all of a sudden, she stiffens. Out of the corner of her eye, Enjolras sees a stealthy figure to her left, about two meters away, half hidden by the shadow of a dumpster with a gun in his hand.

Almost without thinking, Enjolras flicks her sleeve in the direction of the figure and tackles Grantaire to the ground as a gunshot rings out. But only one. At the sickening sound of metal burying itself in flesh, she knows that her blade is sunk to the hilt in the second assassin’s stomach.

They stay still on the filthy ground for a moment, hearts pounding. Grantaire had just started to catch her breath after her fight with Babet, and now that close brush with death. All of a sudden, she comes to the startling realization that Enjolras, a cold and closed off woman, her infuriating and infuriatingly gorgeous partner, has not just saved her life, but is also now lying on top of her, the arm that did not fling the knife encircling her tightly. Her gratitude for the first is mixed with some embarrassment; anyone passing would think that the two of them were making out on the ground in public. In a disgusting alley in Paris too! The more rebellious part of her heart manages to squeak out that this position, inadvertent as it is, is not entirely a bad feeling, and that she could stand to be under Enjolras in many other scenarios that did not involve killing people.

Enjolras looks at Grantaire, pinned underneath her, black curls messy, green blouse wrinkled and dusty, blue eyes huge, and red cheeks growing even redder. She somehow looks more beautiful like this, quick breaths tickling Enjolras’s ear, which honestly should be impossible. Truly, nobody else, not even Aphrodite herself, could compare, but now is not the time to tell her that. There are two fools lying around, one whose weapon needs to be collected, so she gets up and offers a hand to pull her partner up as well.

Silently and quickly, they walk up to the man that Enjolras just killed, identifying him as another one of Thénardier’s assassins, Brujon. Grantaire looks in the direction of where they were lying on the ground. There is a smoking hole in the empty dumpster, and had it not been for Enjolras tackling her to the ground, that bullet would have killed her.

Her partner rejoins her after bagging up the gun. In that time, Grantaire has brushed off most of the dust and fixed her hair, frowning at the scratches on her heels. The sour stench will just have to stay with them until they can both change. Looking at Enjolras, she does something that surprises both of them. She rises up on her tiptoes to accommodate for her partner’s tall frame and drops a light, gentle kiss on her lips.

“Thank you for saving my life, Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers.

Enjolras smiles back, somewhat shakily. Gods, is she cruel? Does Grantaire not realize the effect she has on her everytime they touch? She isn’t even Enjolras’s, yet tempts her _mercilessly_ with her lips.

“You’re very welcome. Let’s return since I doubt that there will be any more attacks today, and Éponine and Cosette are probably very worried for us.”

Grantaire nods silently, and hand-in-hand, they walk back to the café.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon passes uneventfully, and when they reach the apartment, Enjolras feels uncharacteristically giddy, whether it is from the adrenaline rush that the action provided earlier or from Grantaire’s sweet kiss.

As Grantaire is about to step through the door, Enjolras gently stops her with a hand on her shoulder and says, “Wait a moment, R.”

She looks up at her expectantly, and Enjolras takes her hand, slipping the ring off her finger while dramatically falling to one knee in a single, smooth move.

In the most melodramatic manner, she sighs, “Sweetheart, you are beautiful, lovely, pretty, stunning, gorgeous…”

Grantaire smirks, “If you need more adjectives, you can borrow my phone.”

Enjolras gives her a mock glare and exclaims, “Don’t interrupt me, woman! I’m on a roll here!” before continuing in that sappy voice, “Of course, besides your outrageous good looks, you’re also smart and kind and brave and caring. Oh, and did I mention that you’re extremely adorable?”

Grantaire arches a slim eyebrow and notices that Éponine and Cosette, watching from inside the apartment, are both about to double over in laughter.

“Yes, yes, thank you for the compliments. Are you trying to tell me something?” she asks, humoring Enjolras in her brief detour from her usual serious self.

“Marry me, sweetheart, and accept this ring as a token of my eternal and undying love,” Enjolras finishes, her entirely solemn voice a contrast with the mirth in her eyes.

Immediately, Grantaire starts giggling and holds out her hand to let her partner slip the ring back onto her finger, commenting, “I’d marry you, but we’re technically married already.”

Enjolras’s laughter joins hers as she stands back up and in one fell swoop, picks up her “wife” to carry her to their bedroom. Grantaire shrieks and flails in surprise, but lets herself snuggle up and look into her partner’s warm gaze.

“I just thought it was rather unfair that I was ‘married’ to a woman without even getting the chance to propose to her.”

After changing out of her work clothes, Grantaire sobers up and wonders aloud, “How likely is it that any of us—you, me, Combeferre, Joly, et cetera—will ever get married with the lifestyle we lead? I’ve lost count of how many people’s blood I have on my hands, and who wants a wife who could, by their job description, get killed in action any day? What spouse wants to explain to their kids and cats that their wife died because of some crazy psycho she was chasing after? What spouse wants a wife who masquerades as a prostitute to seduce an assassin?”

Enjolras’s eyebrows shoot up as she asks, impressed, “You did that?”

Grantaire smiles wryly, “Oh please, that’s pretty believable with my track record. That’s how I killed Claquesous, all trussed up in this tiny crop top and leather skirt. With blonde hair and brown eyes. Gah! I had to fawn over him before I killed him with a deadly kiss!”

She nearly smacks her partner in the face as she narrates, waving her arms around. Enjolras catches the offending hand and nods slowly, understanding her concerns even if she, herself, isn’t one for casual affairs.

Tenderly stroking the skin on the inside of Grantaire’s wrist, she says, “R, unless you find someone else and fall in love with them, I promise you that if you need a date for an evening or just a person to talk to or if you decide to adopt a litter of kittens and ever need a someone to watch over them while you’re away on a mission, regardless of whether you die or not, I’ll be there.”

After seeing that Enjolras is completely serious, Grantaire feels her heart lurch and bites back her immediate retort of, “What, you’ll manage to squish me into your agenda while saving the world?” in favor of whispering, “Thank you. You’re not as bad as I thought.”

Enjolras folds her into a hug and smirks, “Thanks, I think. You aren’t either.”

They stay like that for at least ten minutes, enclosed in their tiny bubble of warmth, until Cosette knocks on the door to call them out for dinner.

Afterwards, they sit on the couch to watch the news, grim-faced.

“This is what you two stepped out for, isn’t it?” Éponine asks.

“Enjolras first noticed Babet outside before Cosette and I arrived, so I left to take him down. Brujon was his reinforcement, and well, you probably know the rest,” Grantaire explains, still unconsciously holding onto her partner’s hand.

Enjolras squeezes it gently and continues in a grave voice, “So now that you know what we’re up against, you probably also have an idea why the two of us are here instead of the cops. These people aren’t just a bunch of teenage boys with excess testosterone. Éponine, your dad is all sorts of fucked up.”

“Don’t forget mine,” Cosette pipes up, trying to diffuse the tense atmosphere. “Well, he’s not my Papa, so I guess that’s- yeah.”

“Right. Not to be cocky or anything, but I think we should be able to handle it, so don’t worry too much. Just stay cautious.”

They don’t tell their charges about their extra reinforcements, even when Éponine opens her mouth to ask more questions.

“We can’t share more than we already have, or we and our allies will be put in further danger,” Grantaire interrupts.

Later, when they turn in for the night, they don’t bother with any pillows or boundaries. Grantaire silently asks to be cuddled, feeling her heart pound faster when Enjolras pulls her close and tucks them both under the covers. They listen to each other’s rhythmic breathing for a moment, just savoring each other’s presence.

“I’ll be sad when this is over… well, happy when the job is finished, but sad that we’ll be ripped from this domestic reverie and tossed straight into another assignment,” Grantaire mumbles, voice muffled from where her face is pressed against her pillow.

Enjolras strokes her hair and hums, “Yeah. Me too.”

That is enough to make Grantaire’s gut twist as she hopes, _yearns_ , for the life she can’t have. She wants Enjolras to be happy above everything else, wants her to come home from having to save the world to a smiling wife and good food and maybe a cat or two. And then Grantaire realizes with a pang that the idea of Enjolras married to anybody else would rip her apart emotionally. This is unbelievably selfish of her, but she wants to be the one to greet Enjolras with a kiss after a long day and give her head rubs and sleep next to her every night.

As if hearing her thoughts, Enjolras presses her lips to Grantaire’s forehead like a promise that they’ll find a way out of this hellhole somehow. And maybe, just maybe, they can live in the same dream.

* * *

_Grantaire writhes, spread out underneath her, with a flush on her cheeks while Enjolras runs her hands across every inch of exposed skin, down her back and up her thighs until they can cup her butt. She is gorgeous like this, moaning and begging, so Enjolras can’t help but duck her head to press her lips again and again to the most sensitive areas on her lovely body until she tosses her head back in pleasure._

_“You’re mine,” Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire cries out while nodding furiously, pulling her down for a kiss._

_She pants, “I’m yours. And… and you’re mine.”_

Enjolras jolts awake at the sound of her phone buzzing away on the bedside table. She squints at the sudden brightness and picks it up, ignoring her pounding heart and the underlying guilt from dreaming about someone like that.

“Combeferre, it’s five in the morning.”

She glances next to her, at Grantaire, who continues to sleep soundly, only moving to snuffle and scrunch up her nose before innocently nuzzling her pillow until her face smooths out into the most serene expression again. Oh, how Enjolras wants to get back in with her and hold her to chase away the nightmares until she dreams about kittens playing with flowers. Heaving a great sigh, she gets out of bed, hating how Grantaire whimpers when she leaves. She toes on her slippers and walks into the bathroom, shutting the door so as to not disturb her partner’s slumber any longer.

“‘Good morning, Combeferre. How are you, Combeferre?’” her friend teases.

“Nobody should be this functional this early in the morning,” Enjolras grumbles back before begrudgingly saying, “Good morning, ‘Ferre, even though it’s the asscrack of dawn.”

“Wow, you two are already an old married couple. As nice as it is to hear your honeyed grumbles in my ear, ‘Chetta informed me that you need to get a move on. This isn’t a vacation where you can sleep in with R all day and cuddle your wifey.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing? Did you and Courf make out so hard that you guys managed to switch minds through your lips, or some shit? Because I’ve definitely not been ‘on vacation,’ and I never want you to refer to R as my ‘wifey’ ever again,” Enjolras says, trying hard to keep her voice at a minimum.

“Not even when you two finally confess your mutual undying love for each other and get real-married? Because you can be at the altar all grumpy while I laugh in your face because you’re so fucking obvious with your feelings, oh my God,” Combeferre replies, and Enjolras just knows that she has a smirk on her face.

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. How are things back at the lab?”

“Well, Joly and I got two more dead bodies, so thank you for that. Now back to your ‘relationship’,” she says, and Enjolras can even hear the air quotes. “Go to some parties, mingle, relax but not too much. That should help us move this along a little faster.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, and by parties, I mean fancy ones. As in suits and evening gowns and champagne.”

Upon hearing that, Enjolras makes a noise that sounds like a funny combination of a gag and a snort. Honestly, not her most attractive moment, but it _is_ at ass o’clock in the morning.

“I see. Basically a bunch of old money politicians and upper class snobs.”

“And the dreaded one percent,” Combeferre says, only adding fuel to the fire. “Good luck, have fun, and we’ll report back to you if we see anything else. Oh, and good morning, Enjolras.”

“Ugh.”

She swears that she loves her friends. She really does.

Enjolras ends the call, sits on the toilet for a little longer, yawns, and decides to get back in bed for at least another hour. In fact, the thought of Grantaire, all soft and cute, only serves to make her even more tired, so she drags herself back to the bedroom.

“Wha?” Grantaire asks faintly when Enjolras slips under the covers again.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Just go back to sleep,” she replies, brushing the hair away from Grantaire’s face and completely ignoring the fuzzy feelings that arise when she uses the endearment.

“M’kay.”

And that is so not fair. How dare she make Enjolras melt into a puddle with just one word? Nosing at Grantaire’s hair, she slides one hand over her back, effectively trapping her close and being rewarded with a sweet sigh. Content, she dozes off with a smile on her face.

* * *

“Wait, we’re doing _what_ now?” Grantaire exclaims.

“Yeah.”

“So you mean to tell me that she called you at ass o’clock in the morning to tell us to go to some parties.”

Maybe they actually are rubbing off of each other like a real married couple because didn’t Enjolras use that term earlier?

“Soirées,” she says instead.

“Same difference,” Grantaire sniffs with a wave of her hand. “Well, no matter. I’ll just have to be my charming self while you brood in a corner.”

“I don’t brood!”

“Yeah, you do. You look all sexy and stuff when you glare at people. It strikes fear and arousal in their poor little hearts.”

Enjolras pauses, “I-I don’t know if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

Grantaire smiles cheekily and brushes off her partner’s suit, replying, “Both? It can be both.”

“Uh, okay,” Enjolras says, but mostly, she’s thrilled at the verbal confirmation that her partner thinks she is “sexy and stuff”. “We’re prepared, right?”

“Hmm,” Grantaire considers, tapping a finger against her chin. “Nope. We need new clothes.”

“I have multiple suits for the occasion!” Enjolras protests, but she is having none of it.

Grantaire tuts, “And you look hot in all of them, but I can’t just wear any of my short dresses.”

“I think you look good in them.”

“ _Thank you_ , but you’re missing the point,” she says exasperatedly, though Enjolras is pleased to see a blush on her face. “Besides, don’t you want to see me in an evening gown?”

Yes, Enjolras definitely does. She nods.

“That settles it then. We’re going shopping, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was long.


	4. Killer Queen

“I don’t really know why I’m here when I could be back at the apartment in case anything happens to Éponine and Cosette,” Enjolras grumbles. “I’m telling you, I will literally be no help at all.”

“They have their alarms in case anything happens, and Courfeyrac and Bossuet are watching too. You’re here for emotional support. As my wife,” Grantaire replies, patting her cheek before kissing it. “Now just wait here while I put this dress on.”

She steps behind the curtain while Enjolras waits in anticipation. She knew it was a bad idea to come because when Grantaire comes back out wearing a forest green dress that fits like a glove, Enjolras nearly swallows her tongue.

“Zip me up?” she asks, pulling her hair over her shoulder and looking back over it. 

Enjolras assists her dumbly, fingers feeling like jelly as she tries and fails before finally winning the battle against the zipper with a triumphant smile. She lets her hand linger on the bare expanse of Grantaire’s back for just a little longer, desperately wanting to follow it with her lips.

“Lovely,” she breathes, awestruck, when her partner turns around. “If we weren’t already married, I’d propose on the spot.”

Grantaire grins shyly and blushes, fiddling with a curl.

“Thanks. Let me just try on a few more.”

True to her word, Enjolras is absolutely no help deciding between which ones to purchase. Each dress looks more beautiful on her than the last, and she gives the same useful commentary of “Oh my God” or “Wow” each time her partner emerges from behind the curtain.

“Okay, you might’ve been right,” Grantaire sighs exasperatedly. “I need you to make a _firm_ decision for me, _please_. Black or green?”

They end up buying both, and Enjolras is very happy. She even gives her “wife” a little kiss on the nose for her troubles.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” she asks when they step inside another store.

“Yes. Shouldn’t you know not to argue with me about my instincts anymore?” Grantaire huffs, immediately grabbing a few items and marching to the back. “It might come in handy.”

Enjolras is ashamed to admit that she does get a little jealous imagining Grantaire wearing lingerie for anyone other than herself. She opens her mouth to protest, but the words die before they leave her lips.

“I wasn’t mentally prepared for this,” she whines, pouting. “Please give me a warning next time.”

“And miss out on witnessing the gobsmacked look on your face? Never,” Grantaire teases, reaching up to poke Enjolras’s cheek.

Not for the first time, Enjolras finds herself bemoaning her fate because of her partner. Nobody- _nobody_ should be allowed to wear lace if they look that good in it. Well, she won’t infringe on their basic rights, but still. Grantaire looks too sexy, _is_ too sexy, even when she isn't wearing panties and a bra made out of the thin material.

“Yeah, okay, I get it.”

“Aww, don’t worry, Enj. You know this is all for you anyway,” she says with a wink, and if Enjolras isn’t already completely gone for her, then this is the last straw.

“I didn’t know that, but I’m glad?”

“You should be.”

* * *

Enjolras offers an arm to her partner, who takes it with one slender hand.

“You look as beautiful as ever,” she murmurs into Grantaire’s ear as they step into the venue.

She is wearing the green sleeveless dress, hair falling in loose waves down her back and eyeliner and lipstick perfectly done. Enjolras, not one to be outdone or intrude in her spotlight, looks striking in a black three-piece with the top button of her shirt undone. Her blonde hair is pulled away from her face, so it won’t get in her way should anything happen.

“Ditto.”

Strangers in black suits and extravagant gowns stare at them, some in distaste because a lesbian couple looks better than they do, and others in envy of either of them. Grantaire’s stiletto heels click sharply on the hard floor, shiny and sleek with pointed toes, attracting the attention of men and women alike. She doesn’t even give any of them a second glance, keeping her blue eyes fixed on her partner and smiling as they converse.

Enjolras sure has no qualms against this. She is aware that more than a few ladies glance appreciatively at her, but she pays them no mind. Not a single one of them could hold a candle to Grantaire anyway.

What the others don’t see, however, is the gun strapped to Grantaire’s thigh and the knives in Enjolras’s sleeves. Not a single person in the room suspects a single thing from the pair of assassins in the room, not even the security who foolishly let them in.

Éponine and Cosette stay within view, introducing them to more people than Enjolras can remember the names of. She puts on an approachable smile, shaking hands politely and gritting her teeth whenever someone mentions anything about how beautiful her arm candy is in a pathetic and desperate attempt at heteronormity. As if Grantaire isn’t her own person who could kick any of their asses in a heartbeat. She smiles winningly, nothing in her expression betraying the annoyance Enjolras knows is stirring under the surface, if the tightening of the grip on her arm is anything to refer to.

God, she loves this woman.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, monsieur,” Grantaire says, excusing them both, and when they’re alone in a shadowy corner again, she exhales in relief. “If I have to play nice to one more man who looks at me like I’m a piece of meat, I might just get a little trigger-happy. And I might just aim for his crotch. Accidentally, of course.”

Enjolras snickers, “I won’t be the one to stop you.”

“I knew there was a reason they paired us for this mission.”

“Oh please, we nearly tried to kill each other within twenty-four hours.”

“If I remember clearly, you were the only one to blame,” Grantaire huffs. “I wasn’t the one who held you at knife-point.”

Throwing all caution to the wind, Enjolras considers this and replies, “You’re wrong. A little part of my sanity died the first time I laid eyes on you, and another part shrivels away with each passing moment. You know how much self-control I have, and I’m holding onto the last shreds right now.”

Grantaire’s blush is visible even in the dim room, and Enjolras wants to kiss her until all her worries about this assignment fades into tender love.

“You can’t just say stuff like that, Enjolras,” she whines. “Or I might get the wrong idea.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow, asking, “And the wrong idea is…?”

Gone is the cold-hearted killer, the irresistible seductress, until all that is left is a woman who wears her heart on her sleeve.

“The one where you might actually have feelings for me instead of just leading me on to dread the end of this assignment when you won’t even look in my direction anymore,” Grantaire whispers, refusing to meet her eyes.

Hope is a wondrous feeling that blossoms in Enjolras’s chest. She lifts a hand to touch Grantaire’s cheek, tilting her chin up until she has no choice but to look at her.

“So, what if I said you’re wrong about your so-called ‘wrong idea’?”

“Then you’re just being cruel.”

“How so?”

Her blue eyes fill with tears, and she doesn’t even try to cover up the emotion flickering across her face.

“That isn’t an answer,” Grantaire replies and, in a voice that is just barely audible, continues, “Has any of this felt real to you, or has all this flirting just been another disguise?”

Enjolras exhales shakily, “Everything has been more honest than I should allow. But if you’re asking me if I hold any romantic feelings for you, then the answer is obviously yes.”

Grantaire’s eyes go wide for a moment, and the flush in her cheeks grows. She hesitates, and Enjolras lets her gather her thoughts for a moment.

Finally, she opens her mouth to say, “Firstly, nothing about you is ever obvious, and secondly, now you’re just being unnecessarily rude.”

_“What?”_

“Well, you haven’t kissed me yet, for one,” Grantaire points out, and the smile that breaks over her features is breathtaking.

Really, she should have led with that.

Enjolras drops a hand to her waist, pulling her close with a purpose in her eyes, but before their lips can meet, Grantaire’s phone buzzes in her purse.

“Fucking-” she mutters, taking it out. “It’s Bossuet. Watch them while I take this.”

Grantaire moves to walk away, but after pausing for a moment, turns back around and hurries back to place a kiss on Enjolras’s cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

Enjolras is left staring after her with a besotted expression on her face. The others approach her, and Éponine immediately smirks.

“Looks like R really left more than a lasting impression, huh?”

“Uh-”

“By a ‘lasting impression’, I mean a lipstick print. And that dopey look in your eyes,” she says with a deadpan.

Enjolras brings a hand to her cheek, and sure enough, a red smudge leaves with her finger. She shrugs. It's kind of cute, she has to admit.

“Oh man, you are _so_ smitten. At least R is just as in love with you as you are with her,” Cosette adds, cooing. “Aww, look at that blushy blush.”

Enjolras snags a champagne flute from a waiter passing by and downs half its contents in one gulp before it is plucked out of her hand. Grantaire sips it slowly while plastering herself to her partner’s side.

“Enj, we got a lead.”

* * *

“A work party?” Enjolras asks, taking Grantaire’s hand in hers and linking their fingers together. It feels natural now, the proximity and the casual affection, but they still haven’t had a chance to revisit the almost-kiss from earlier, which makes her feel more than a little miffed.

“At the Louvre.” Grantaire explains, leaning in close and resting her head on her partner’s shoulder. “We’re hunting down Montparnasse before he can hunt us down. Find him before he finds us. He works directly under Thénardier, so getting rid of him will be a major step towards our goal.”

“And our charges?”

“We have no choice but to put their lives in the others’ hands. Jehan and Feuilly will both be there, since they both technically work with Cosette, but hopefully, their covers won’t be blown.”

Enjolras strokes Grantaire’s hair, smiling when she hums contentedly. She wants to laugh at their situation, at how ridiculous it is that their version of pillow-talk is basically plotting the death of a criminal. Granted, they _are_ cuddled together, sitting on their bed, and Enjolras _is_ enjoying this moment a whole lot, but she can’t help it when her eyes drift down to Grantaire’s lips, soft and pink without her red lipstick, for the third time.

Grantaire doesn’t seem to notice, gazing up at her with what she hopes is adoration and fondness as she talks about their plan.

“Boss also told me that in addition to being my wife, you’ll be some sort of bodyguard, just to make this charade more believable. And then while you stay silent and cautious no matter how much you want to be the one to negotiate, I’ll have a little chat with Montparnasse before-” she stops to make a gesture to mime slitting someone’s throat.

“I’ve been upgraded,” Enjolras says in a flat voice, void of any emotion. “Kidding, obviously.”

Grantaire shoves her shoulder, and they fall backwards against the pillows. The atmosphere immediately turns playful, and in revenge, Enjolras reaches down until she can find the tiny strip of exposed skin between Grantaire’s camisole and shorts—yes, the kitten ones. Grinning widely, she wiggles her fingers, and her partner shrieks before covering her mouth with both hands, because they haven’t exactly tested out how thick the walls actually are, and glaring at her.

“Mercy, darling! Have mercy!” Grantaire wheezes, hiccuping from her laughter. Enjolras stops her assault and settles down next to her against the fluffy pillows.

She takes a moment to admire Grantaire, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed with exertion, and her idiot brain wonders if she would look this beautiful in her afterglow. Enjolras would have to find out another time. Now, they sleep before waking up bright and early for work the next day.

* * *

“We have about an hour to get ready,” Enjolras announces, entering the apartment after doing a sweep of the security cameras she set up on the very first day. “Let’s go, lesbians.”

Grantaire’s mouth falls open before an incredulous laugh bubbles out.

“Who are you, and what did you do to my wife?”

“I’m still your wife,” Enjolras says, rolling her eyes and looking pointedly at their wedding rings. Somewhere behind them, Éponine makes a gagging noise and coughs up something that sounds suspiciously like, “Just kiss already.”

Grantaire supposes that there is also that, which they’ve managed to hold off for a week. She knows she wants to kiss Enjolras, and she knows that Enjolras wants to kiss her, but neither the time nor place have seemed right. It isn’t like they haven’t kissed before, but Grantaire knows in her heart that she wants this one to be special for them both.

“I’m serious though. Time is ticking.”

Hearing Enjolras’s voice snaps her out of her reverie. She nods, grabs her partner’s hand, and pulls her into their shared bedroom.

Grantaire only falters in applying her mascara when Enjolras starts stripping out of her work clothes right in front of her. She stares at golden skin and the muscles in her back, exposed when she takes off her shirt. And then she mourns the loss of such a sight when her partner puts on a new shirt, this time in black. To add fuel to the fire, Enjolras tugs on a pair of leather gloves that cling to every contour of her hands for the sake of her cover as a bodyguard. Grantaire gulps and tries not to think about them wrapped around her throat. God, she is too gay for this shit.

When their eyes meet in the full-sized mirror, Grantaire blushes and looks away, just missing the tiny smile that Enjolras adopts. It is a flavor smug, but fond more than anything else. The rest of her makeup gets applied with a practiced ease before she decides to a little teasing of her own.

There is no logical explanation for the way Grantaire steps out of her flats and sits down at the edge of the bed to slowly peel off her stockings, inch by scant inch, lifting her legs into the air as she does so. From where she leans against the wall, Enjolras stops fiddling with her blades and swiping at her phone in favor of fixing blue eyes on her and never looking away once. When Grantaire reaches for the hem of her modest dress and pulls it off, arching her back, Enjolras nearly has a heart attack. In fact, she might actually whimper a little at having her so close, yet so far.

Ignoring her, Grantaire grabs her black gown from the hanger and slips it on, adjusting the knife hidden in her strapless bra. The halter neckline allows her to move her arms freely, whether it is to shoot someone with the gun in her thigh holster or to reach up and maybe kiss her partner.

In that moment, Enjolras decides that she is the only person who could possibly look sexy while putting clothes _on_. Grantaire takes out a pair of patent leather heels with red bottoms, and slips them on before straightening back up. She hears a strangled moan come from somewhere to her right and grins to herself, making a note to buy more dresses with slits up the side.

“We look hot,” Grantaire comments, fitting her hand in the crook of Enjolras’s elbow.

“Deadly,” she agrees.

“If looks could kill, we would be out of a job.”

Enjolras looks at her weirdly and says, “I don’t think that’s what that saying means.”

Shushing her, Grantaire replies, “Don’t ruin the moment. Besides, just try and tell me I’m wrong.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The Louvre’s courtyard is bustling with activity when they arrive, with even more guests than the last party they attended. They mingle, chatting with people who donated large sums of money to the museum and laughing at the appropriate times. Grantaire introduces Enjolras as her wife and bodyguard, and her partner’s glare effectively prevents anyone from challenging it.

“Did Bossuet tell you what he looks like?” Enjolras whispers, ducking her head close to Grantaire’s to disguise their conversation as an intimate one.

“‘Like a rat, but rich,’ is what she said,” Grantaire snorts. “It’s not very descriptive, I know, but we’ll know when we see him.”

“Let’s hope you’re right.”

“Yeah.”

Seriously, Thénardier’s men could do well to be better at hiding.

Montparnasse is every bit the well-dressed rat Grantaire mentioned. He doesn’t even try to hide, flaunting his wealth and his entourage behind him.

“You know he’s a criminal when he wears designer sunglasses at night,” Enjolras quips, rolling her eyes.

Grantaire snickers and swats at her arm before pouting and putting on an elegant air just in time.

“Allow me to introduce myself, madame. I don’t believe we’ve met,” Montparnasse says in a smarmy voice when he gets close enough. He takes Grantaire’s hand in his and brings it up to his lips to kiss it, and she has to resist the urge to yank it away and flip him off before stepping on his crotch with a stiletto heel.

“We haven’t, monsieur,” she replies instead. Next to her, Enjolras tenses, and she knows that she must be shooting daggers at him with her eyes. “Call me Grantaire.”

Montparnasse only smiles and asks, “My name is Montparnasse. And this is your…?”

“Wife. And security detail.”

“I see. Although a lady as yourself could have more than one person by her side.”

What’s with this guy? If only he knew that she doesn’t even need a single person to serve as a bodyguard. Grantaire really wants to roll her eyes now, but she smiles through the pain.

“On the contrary, my love is very capable and can probably take down your entire team alone.”

Not to mention that she, herself, probably could too.

Enjolras curls an arm around her waist and pulls her close to complete the act. Whether she is actually acting or not is a completely different question that would only distract them from the task at hand. Nonchalantly, Grantaire steers them away from the glass pyramids as they converse. With such a crowd, the risk of hitting anyone is much too high should hell break loose.

Montparnasse does not seem to notice how far away from the actual party they get until they’re in the most secluded corner of the museum, almost entirely behind the building. The only other people around are his men, who quickly form a semicircle around them and draw their guns.

“Well, well, well. Was this your plan all along, Grantaire? To bring me out here and then arrest me?” Montparnasse drawls. “I do have to say that the police don't usually send out such pretty ladies to do so.”

The police? Really? Now that’s just demeaning.

Grantaire sighs, “You could just turn yourself over, but I have a feeling you won’t go easily, so I guess we’ll just have to take this into our own hands.”

Montparnasse backs behind his protective wall and signals for his men to shoot. The first bullet sails harmlessly between their shoulders as Enjolras moves swiftly to right. Before either of them can even blink, the man who shot crumples to the ground, knife embedded in his belly. In sync, Enjolras and Grantaire move to stand back-to-back, ready to fight at a second’s notice.

Grantaire reaches up her dress for her gun and clicks the safety off while Enjolras extracts her own firearm from underneath her suit jacket. Gunfights, although messy and terribly loud, will always be necessary in their field of work. Hopefully the party will be too loud for anyone to notice the noises behind the museum, and if they do, simply chalk it up to be fireworks or a celebration.

“Stay safe,” Enjolras mutters.

“You too.”

Without another moment wasted, they leap into the fray, dodging the bullets flying around their heads and shooting at every possible opportunity. Unlike their opponents, they can’t afford to waste ammunition, so they aim for fatal areas like their chests. When only two men remain, Grantaire darts forward and aims one jab at a pressure point on his neck with dexterous fingers. He falls, unconscious and likely dead, but she has no time to check. Instead, she crushes his windpipe by stepping on it. _And this, my love, is why I wear heels._

Meanwhile, Enjolras drops her empty gun and heads for Montparnasse, who puts up a decent fight, but is no match for her. Grantaire, in the midst of hand-to-hand combat with the other guard, sneaks glimpses of her partner in action while never letting up her own fight. All this time, she has never witnessed Enjolras duel like this. Her motions are both precise and accurate, letting Montparnasse’s punches and kicks miss their marks in a manner close to nonchalant. She seems to be toying with him more than anything, the glint of her blade flickering between them as it shreds his clothes and skin, one scratch at a time.

Enjolras catches her partner’s eye and nods. Almost telepathically, they both straighten as one, and Grantaire points her gun at Montparnasse and shoots at the same time that Enjolras flings her knife at the last thug, cutting into his throat. The two men keel over at once into the blood of their companions.

The air stands still, not a single sound piercing the stifling silence. In the middle of the ring of dead bodies, Enjolras and Grantaire remain, arms still outstretched and pressed against each other, breathing heavily.

Not wasting another moment, Enjolras grabs her partner by the waist and tugs her close.

“Enjolras? Did you need some- _mmph!_ ”

Grantaire gets cut off by her partner’s lips on hers, eyes widening in surprise before they fall closed as she melts into the kiss, winding her arms around Enjolras’s neck. It’s simultaneously sweet and urgent as adrenaline pumps through both of their bodies. She opens her mouth and moans when Enjolras sinks her teeth gently into her lower lip, allowing her tongue access to slip inside and brush softly against her own. For all the small pecks and light kisses they have shared in the past, this one feels like a grand finale, although Grantaire has a feeling that this kiss is merely the beginning. And even better yet, they don’t have to pretend.

When they part, gasping for air, she lurches forward on weak knees, collapsing against Enjolras’s chest and embracing her tightly. Her partner holds her, rubbing her back, gloved hands warm against her skin. Grantaire tilts her head up for another kiss, and Enjolras obliges, smiling against her lips while the party guests at the Louvre remain blissfully ignorant. She finally gets a good look at her partner and smiles at the lipstick staining her mouth and the blissed out expression in her eyes. Enjolras has never been more gorgeous than she is right now, striking features made even more so by the shadows surrounding them.

“I’ll have to burn this dress,” Grantaire laments, looking down at the stained fabric. “I rather liked it too!”

“Only you would kill a bunch of people and then complain about your dress,” Enjolras snarks back, letting her fingers graze lightly over her shoulder, making a shiver run down her spine. “I agree though, it’s a pity.”

“Oh well. Enough complaining. It’s clean-up time.”

Enjolras rolls her eyes before starting to gather weapons, hers and her opponents’ alike. This is definitely the less glamorous part of the job, having to pick up after those they kill. Grantaire bends to do the same, cursing when her dress catches around her knees. Enjolras wordlessly hands her a knife, which she uses to cut the skirt away before passing it back to her. Grantaire uses the fabric to pick up bloody guns before balling it up and tucking it away in an evidence bag.

She gives some of that handy DNA-removing substance that Joly equipped her with to Enjolras, and they sprinkle it over each corpse before ducking away from the museum. Grantaire gives Feuilly a call, telling her about their situation, and they return to the apartment before anyone can become suspicious of them. Thankfully, nobody gives a passing glance at the missing half of Grantaire’s dress, and both the color of their eveningwear and the nighttime darkness obscure any stains.

Grantaire only manages to get one shoe off before Enjolras pushes her against their bedroom wall and kisses her deeply, coaxing her to hook a leg up and around her waist with an insistent hand against her thigh. In retaliation, she lifts the other one and crosses her ankles behind Enjolras’s back, the other shoe dangling from her foot before she kicks it somewhere across the room. She whimpers at the obvious display of her partner’s strength holding her up. One by one, she removes her gloves by pulling them off with her teeth, keeping Grantaire balanced with her free hand.

Enjolras’s hands burn through the tatters of her dress wherever they wander while they kiss. Her fingers find the zipper, and she pulls, setting Grantaire down and letting her step out of it when it pools at her feet.

“Oh fuck,” is all Enjolras can say when she catches the first glimpse of familiar lace.

Grantaire grins smugly and replies, “I can’t believe you forgot I was wearing it.”

Her partner’s only response is to latch onto her neck with her mouth and suck a bruise into it while finding the clasp of her bra with deft fingers. Enjolras extracts a thin blade from the lining and holds it up triumphantly.

“Aha! I knew you had one in there,” she says, and honestly, the proud look on her face is too cute not to kiss.

“I’m standing here, half-naked, and you’re too far away,” Grantaire whines, making grabby hands for her. Enjolras ducks away from her and collects Grantaire’s heels from the other side of the room, walking back over to set them down by her feet.

“Put them on,” she says in a husky voice, eyes darkening with lust.

“Ohhhh my God.”

Enjolras watches intently as Grantaire takes her sweet time sliding into her stilettos and lets out a strangled sound when she straightens.

“Ah, wait a sec,” she says, reaching up to unpin her hair and tossing the accessory onto the counter. “Poisoned hairpin.”

Grantaire should consider modeling or something if she ever decides to quit being an assassin, Enjolras decides. Her black panties and shoes are a stark contrast against her fair skin. She is easily more beautiful than any of the statues or paintings at the Louvre, hair coming loose and tumbling down her back in thick curls when she tosses her head. Enjolras reaches for her, making sure to run her fingers over every available inch of skin just begging to be worshipped and kissing across her chest until her nipples turn rosy and stiff. Grantaire slides her panties off, rendering her completely nude in her heels, and they are soundless against the carpet as she walks Enjolras backwards to the bed.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Enjolras pulls her forward until her partner is straddling her lap, arching her back and pushing her breasts forward. Grantaire moans, and Enjolras sips those sounds from her lips like they’re fine wine. She kisses her softly, touching her with reverent fingers until she shakes apart in pleasure. Grantaire twitches, the blush growing more pronounced on her cheeks as her mouth forms an “O” shape and her eyebrows pinch together.

“You haven’t even taken your clothes off,” she points out breathily, slumping forward against Enjolras in her boneless state. Grantaire hums a little tune and plays with her lover's blonde hair.

“Brilliant observation, sweetheart. But we’re showering.”

Grantaire tries to stand on shaky legs, but Enjolras curls her hands under her thighs and gets up to carry her to the bathroom. She squeaks in surprise and holds on like a koala, arms tightening around her neck.

“Show-off.”

“Only doing my civic duty,” Enjolras replies.

Grantaire laughs and mutters fondly, “Dork… out of curiosity, did you by any chance decide to start hating me all those months ago because you were jealous?”

She is pleased to see two spots of pink appear high on her partner’s cheeks as she vehemently denies it.

“No,” Enjolras says firmly, and when Grantaire pouts, amends her answer. “Okay, maybe.”

“Aww, you’re adorable.”

“I’m not!”

Grantaire crosses her arms to the best of her ability and shakes her head. And then she leans in to kiss Enjolras just because she fucking can.

With warm water, they wash the blood away, and Enjolras shampoos Grantaire’s hair, scratching lightly at her scalp and eliciting the sweetest sounds of contentment. Grantaire rises onto her toes to press their lips together, and Enjolras catches her by the waist and gets as close as she can in the middle of the spacious shower. Grantaire plants kisses across her collarbone and bites down, so Enjolras grabs her butt and squeezes in revenge.

“I could stay here forever,” Grantaire whispers into the space between them, happy to just rest her head on her partner’s shoulder.

“Me too, R,” Enjolras replies and drops a small kiss into her wet hair.

Hot water doesn’t last forever, though, so she wraps Grantaire in a fluffy towel and then replaces it with the blanket she cocoons them in, elated just to take care of her for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh. Finally, right?


	5. Who Wants to Live Forever

“Are you trying to murder me?” Enjolras asks, groaning when she uncrosses her legs to stretch after reading her next case file.

Grantaire looks up from her book on art restoration with an innocent expression and twists to pop her back.

“Why would I be trying to murder you?”

Enjolras gestures indignantly at her entire person and makes a few unintelligible noises.

“You’re too damn cute!” she exclaims at last. “It should be a crime!”

“Darling, both you and I know that crime is what we do. What brought this on, by the way?” Grantaire asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Your shirt, your face, your butt, your whole fucking personality, just you in general…” Enjolras trails off. “Fuck.”

Grantaire looks down at the shirt in question and understands. It _is_ cute. The crop top is in her favorite shade of green with the words, “Feeling cute, might stab someone later,” and a little cartoon heart with a knife sticking out printed on it.

“Why thank you, dear.”

She marches over to pick Enjolras’s laptop up and replaces it with herself, demanding attention. The best things about being fake-married to Enjolras are undoubtedly the free cuddles and the lack of surprised glances from either Éponine or Cosette when they walk by the living room. Enjolras is nice and warm, and Grantaire would trust her with her life, if their mission has been anything worth mentioning so far. The fact that she’s also the sexiest person to exist on the planet is a definite plus.

_(“I beg to differ._ You _definitely hold that title.”_

_“Lies and slander. I won’t have you accusing my wife of being anything less than The Sexiest.”_

_“Excuse you, I am your wife. And I happen to think that_ my _wife is The Sexiest.”_

_“... I suppose we can agree to disagree.”)_

Needless to say, that was probably the most efficient argument they’ve ever had.

Before they could snuggle with purpose, the door flies open, and before either of them could react, Combeferre walks in, followed by Joly and Bossuet.

“Uh-” Grantaire starts, flailing a bit because she has no idea what to say.

“Well, you two look comfortable,” Combeferre says, cutting her off with a hint of amusement in her voice. “Oh sorry, did I interrupt something?”

Enjolras only tightens her grip on her girlfriend-slash-wife and glares at their friends over her head.

_“Yes,”_ she replies emphatically. “I take cuddling R very seriously.”

Truly a woman after Grantaire’s own heart.

Cosette peeks around the door and asks, “Are they…?”

“They’re with us, don’t worry,” Grantaire replies and turns back to the others. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

Joly says, “We located Thénardier’s hiding place. It’s safe to assume our dear friend, Tholomyès, will be there too if we time it right. And then you can eliminate both of them at once.”

Enjolras takes a breath. So this is the final leg of their assignment. She meets Grantaire’s eyes and sees her own emotions reflected back at her.

“Very well, then,” Grantaire says. “Tea?”

* * *

“Good morning!” Grantaire greets her colleagues in a chipper voice when she walks into the offices with Cosette on Monday.

Jehan stares at her and yells, “Hey, Feu, I think something’s wrong with R!”

They get swatted on the shoulder for that.

“Nothing’s _wrong_ with me,” she huffs, but when she moves, her blouse shifts.

“Oh my God, is that a _hickey?_ ” Jehan screeches, and Grantaire turns bright red.

“No, I fell. On my neck,” she says sarcastically with a deadpan expression.

“Ha, fucking ha. Trust me, I’ve read those romance novels, R. Oh man, I hope you aren’t cheating on your wifey!”

“On the contrary, I think it’s more accurate to say we consummated our fake marriage.”

Jehan’s answering squeal destroys her eardrums, and she winces.

“I’m so happy for you! All that miserable pining finally resulted in _something,_ jeez.”

Grantaire gets a little lost in her happiness, smiling and sighing giddily in a way she hasn’t for years. She’s turning soft.

“Don’t get too distracted,” Jehan says, snapping her out of her daydream with a voice that is much more focused. “Although I have faith that neither of you will.”

Feuilly comes by to ruffle her hair fondly after kissing her cheek in greeting. Grantaire yelps and bats her hand away, mock-glaring at her before dropping it and returning the greeting.

“You’re so cute, R,” Feuilly coos, poking her red cheek.

“Of course I am,” she huffs, crossing her arms and pouting.

“Small, but mighty.”

Grantaire’s expression turns smug and she replies, “You'd better watch your kneecaps because I’m coming for them!”

At Cosette’s shushing, they all return back to their work.

During lunchtime, Grantaire gets a surprise visit from Enjolras, who strides into the backrooms of the Louvre.

“Courfeyrac and Bahorel are with her,” she whispers into her partner’s ear when she bends down to give her a kiss. “We have to go.”

Grantaire nods, enthusiastically returning the kiss to keep up the charade. Everyone in the room has identical shit-eating grins, so she blushes to the roots of her hair. Tying her hair up in a ponytail, she hurries out, pulling Enjolras behind her.

Back in the black car Musichetta had provided, Grantaire strips quickly behind the divider, replacing her work clothes with a sleek catsuit while Enjolras does the same. She zips up her heeled boots after tucking a few daggers in them before slipping one into the miniscule space in her sleeve, receiving a grin from her partner when she does so.

“I only learned from the best,” she says, giving Enjolras a saucy wink in return.

“Alright, sweetheart.”

* * *

Of course, the location is hidden in plain sight, just any other apartment building from the outside. There aren't any guards at the building’s entrance, so Thénardier is either really dumb or really smart. In this day and age, a digital security system is plenty for the sake of protecting someone, but nobody is safe enough against Combeferre and her computer.

Sure enough, the two of them sneak in without any consequences and huddle in the shadows as they climb to the fourth flour. The next corridor is behind a locked door, so Grantaire takes out her trusty hairpin and jabs it into the lock, picking at it until she hears the telltale _snick_ of it being released. The door swings open, revealing two people behind it, so Enjolras and Grantaire press themselves against either side of the door, waiting for them to walk through.

Before the men can turn around, they fall over with daggers in their backs, landing on the carpet with soft thuds. Enjolras walks through the doorway first, checking to make sure nobody is hiding on the other side before taking Grantaire by the hand. At the end of that hallway, she takes a deep breath and kisses her partner.

“Come back to me safely,” Enjolras whispers under her breath, and Grantaire only nods and seals her promise with another kiss.

Thénardier is easy to find, basically sitting on a throne of opulence. He is wearing more rings than he has fingers, and men dressed in black suits stand on either side of his imposing desk chair. Enjolras nearly scoffs aloud because this whole situation is really just too cliché. Thénardier even turns around menacingly like a mafia boss addressing his men, seemingly unaware of the assassin right outside.

Quickly formulating a plan, Enjolras decides to go for the head before taking out the others. She crouches by the door and calculates how long it would take for her to dispatch Thénardier first. Throwing all that out the window, she kicks the door open and jumps in, lunging for the person closest to her. In their panic, the men fumble with their weapons as Enjolras kills them off one by one.

Thénardier hides his surprise under a thin layer of calm, giving instructions to the men directly next to him. He doesn’t even bother to get up from his chair, spinning around idly while his thugs drop like flies.

Finally, when he has a gun pointed straight at his forehead, he decides that making a move might be necessary. Usually, Enjolras would take the time to negotiate her opponent into giving up, but this foul man in front of her deserves none of that. If he wanted to be left alone with his life, he should’ve done the same with Éponine in the past. Enjolras will rest assured that killing him is nothing but a good idea.

Unfortunately, she also has three other guns aimed at her.

“Drop the weapon, woman. It’s no use, three to one,” Thénardier says with a smirk.

Enjolras shrugs. Well, at least she had a backup for her backup. Pretending to lower her weapon and raise her arms in surrender, Enjolras presses the trigger at the last possible second, causing Thénardier to keel over with a bullet in his stomach. In the same moment, she ducks, allowing her opponents’ bullets to fly overhead. Heart pounding, she leaps onto the table and shoots one in the chest before twisting around and jabbing her fingers against another one’s windpipe.

In the end, it is just any other duel. Abandoning the gun, Enjolras goes for close combat. This last thug, Guelemer, seems to anticipate her every move, blocking the flurry of punches and kicks that she aims at him. However, she manages to dodge his attacks too, being much more agile than the hulking man.

When Enjolras finally gets an opening, she exhales and extends her hand, blade leaving it and cutting into Guelemer’s body.

“You’re a dead man,” she says.

He smirks and replies, blood spilling from between his lips, “As are you.”

Enjolras, trained as she is, doesn’t notice the tiny pill being flung into her mouth until it is much too late. She clutches her burning throat, feeling suddenly nauseous. Seconds away from passing out, she presses a finger to her earpiece to activate it and manages to get a single word out before she collapses on the floor, foaming at the mouth.

“Poison.”

* * *

Meanwhile, Grantaire has lost count of the number of people she has dispatched on the way to Tholomyès’s office. Men leap at her from all sides of the narrow hallway, but she sidesteps them easily on nimble feet. She pulls knives out of her sleeves and throws them, aim never failing her, until her jacket is empty. The ones in her boots stay just in case Tholomyès puts up a fight later. Her gun will have to do in the meantime, but that also means alerting everyone in the apartment building of her presence.

Grantaire shoots straight and true, her bullets never straying from their marks. Inching her way to the office, she knocks out man after man until she reaches an unremarkable white door. Being a trained assassin has its perks, especially when she whips out the dagger from her left boot and sheaths it in the throat of the man standing right behind it. He isn’t her target, unfortunately, but he keels over to reveal Tholomyès, himself, wearing an unimpressed expression.

Not one to hesitate, Grantaire reaches for her last blade, but the bastard fucking _catches_ it when it flies toward him, humming and twirling it. Suddenly, it leaves his fingers, and she moves, but not fast enough for her liking. It nicks her cheek before lodging itself in the wall next to her.

“It’s nicely balanced,” Tholomyès comments. “Who’s your supplier? For research purposes, of course.”

Grantaire glares at him and says nothing, so he continues, “Do sit down. You’re making me anxious.”

She huffs and crosses her arms, remaining standing. If he wants to have a chat, he’ll get one, but Grantaire will not be the one to let all her guards down first.

“Good. Now that we are civil, you have to understand. I just wanted to see my daughter again,” Tholomyès pleads with wide eyes.

Never before has Grantaire heard such bullshit in her life, so she replies, “That’s why you repetitively sent thugs to kidnap her?”

“That was merely a precautionary measure. No harm would’ve been done to her,” he says, spreading his hands wide. “I hope you can understand, given your line of work.”

“She didn’t want to see you. Cosette has a father. Who isn’t _you_.”

“Wow, harsh! I’m her real father anyway, and I would be able to provide her with all the support she wants. Politics, you see, are a dirty business…” Tholomyès continues his spiel while Grantaire rolls her eyes.

Making sure he keeps himself busy with his monologue, she strides around the heavy oak desk in the center of the office, pretending to pay attention. She glances around for any potential weapons, and cheers inwardly when she spots an unassuming letter opener on the shelf. Outwardly, she keeps a neutral expression, hoping that she looks like she’s nonchalantly admiring her target’s collection of books and discreetly slipping it into her sleeve. Enjolras would be proud. Briefly, Grantaire wonders how her partner is doing, but pushes that down in favor of reaching the endgame.

“... and Valjean is not even a good person! He hides under his disguise of mayor when he’s actually a criminal, blah blah blah…” Tholomyès is still waving his hands around, still occupied by his ranting. Hypocrite, much?

It doesn’t matter in the long run because suddenly, he finds himself with his own letter opener buried deep inside his gut. In the time it takes for him to look down in surprise, Grantaire aims a kick at his crotch and jumps onto his shoulders. Tholomyès falls to his knees with her legs wrapped around his neck, slowly strangling him.

“How-”

“You deserve a slower and more painful death,” Grantaire snarls before crushing his head between her thighs, staying true to her reputation.

Inhaling and exhaling once, she walks out of the office just in time for her earpiece to crackle to life.

“Enjolras?” she asks tentatively, a little afraid of what might be happening. They agreed to meet outside and only call for emergencies.

_“Poison,”_ the voice in her ear says before it cuts off.

Before Grantaire can fly into a panic, she hurries down the hallway, leaping over dead bodies like it is an Olympic sport and repeatedly muttering to herself, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

Switching the channel on her earpiece, she shouts, “Joly! Get over here, now!”

In mere seconds, she reaches Enjolras, who lies on the floor, her skin cold to the touch. Frantically, Grantaire runs to the nearest dead man and checks his pockets.

“Damn!” she exclaims before checking another. Third time's a charm, and she finds a pack of cigarettes. She wads up the tobacco and shoves it down her partner’s throat, hoping it is not too late.

“What the hell happened?” Joly asks before answering her own question. “Oh God, corrosive sublimate. The tobacco should temporarily keep it from killing her until we can get her back to my lab.”

Together, they lift Enjolras down the stairs and into the waiting car. Grantaire greets Bossuet with a nod before helping her partner into the backseat. Once everyone is securely strapped in, Bossuet floors it, causing the car to hurtle recklessly down the Parisian streets.

Grantaire prays that she doesn’t die in the meantime and clings helplessly to Enjolras’s unconscious form for the duration of the ride.

* * *

While Grantaire sits outside of Joly’s laboratory-slash-hospital with Bossuet and fiddles with her fingers, her friends come to see her. Éponine and Cosette both give her comforting hugs after faltering at the stricken and hopeless expression on her face, and she gets introduced to a large man, who exudes an amiable air and shakes her hand gratefully.

“My Papa, Jean Valjean,” Cosette introduces. “This is R.”

“Pleasure, monsieur.”

“Likewise. Thank you for keeping my daughter and her wife safe.”

They leave after kissing her cheeks, and immediately, the doors burst open again. Grantaire gets swallowed up in a million hugs until she bursts into tears from her spot in between all of her friends’ arms. Both Courfeyrac and Combeferre embrace her tightly because she is their unofficial sister-in-law, causing her to laugh wetly. Bahorel takes her from Feuilly and Jehan, squeezing her until she can’t breathe and lifting her out of her chair and into her lap.

Grantaire lets herself be cuddled by her friends one by one, sniffling into their blazers and getting snot all over their blouses. Jehan runs their fingers through her hair and braids it while they all wait patiently. Suffice to say, she loves these people so much, but she wants to see Enjolras again.

At the sound of the door opening, Grantaire whips her head around, and Joly smiles at her in relief, announcing, “Enj is going to be just fine. She’s awake and asking for you, R.”

* * *

Enjolras is lying on a hospital bed, her face pale and blonde hair out of its usual braid and hanging in limp tangles around her head. She looks like someone who has just been seriously ill, but there is a shadow of her usual righteousness on her face when she sees Grantaire run into the room. She has changed out of her catsuit and into a soft-looking green dress. It looks lovely on her, as anything else does, but Enjolras thinks she likes the leather pants more. Grantaire’s butt is something to behold in those pants, and it is a wonder that Enjolras never just fell over upon seeing it.

Grantaire’s blue eyes are huge on her face, and her cheeks are tracked with… tear stains? Since when did Enjolras’s partner, strong and clever, cry for anyone else?

But she is smiling now, hurrying to the bedside, and for a moment, neither of them can speak.

“You look like shit, darling,” Grantaire says at last, and although her words are mocking, her voice is quivering with all the pent-up emotion she has been holding in all day.

“Look at yourself, sweetheart,” Enjolras laughs weakly and lifts a hand to touch the bandage on her cheek. “So, what did I miss? Did you get rid of him?”

Grantaire nods, “I got in almost completely unarmed. My knives were in the bodies of his men, I was shooting, and my hairpin was in someone else. Tholomyès caught my last dagger and then threw it back at me, hence… this.”

She gestures to her cheek and continues when Enjolras waves her on, “We had a little chat, and he was going on and on about politics, which was kinda boring. And then I found a letter opener on a shelf and slipped it into my sleeve-”

“Learning my tricks, I see,” Enjolras murmurs. “Then?”

“I’m getting there. I injured him with it, kicked him where the sun doesn’t shine, and crushed his skull between my thighs while he was down,” Grantaire finishes with a flourish.

Enjolras stays quiet for a moment before muttering, “Are you saying that the annoying little bastard actually has any balls?”

Her partner openly gapes at her and laughs incredulously, “Who are you, and what did you do to my Enjolras?”

“Your Enjolras is right here and a little disappointed that she hasn’t gotten a kiss yet.”

“You-” Grantaire is cut off when she is suddenly pulled forward, and she feels her partner’s lips press firmly against her own. Enjolras sighs into the kiss, ignoring the fact that they are both in rather gross states. Nothing else matters when she has Grantaire in her arms.

“I love you,” Enjolras has to say when they part, and she gets to see the emotions flicker over Grantaire’s face.

At last, the dam breaks, and she cries into Enjolras’s chest, “I love you too. Oh God, I love you. _You_ should’ve promised to come back to _me_ safely.”

“It’s okay. The worst is over.”

And it is.

Grantaire strokes a hand down the side of Enjolras’s face, getting under the covers with her. They stay like that, cuddled together, while Enjolras sneaks a hand lower until it gets batted away.

“No.”

“But, R, it’s my emotional support stress ball,” she complains. “Please…”

Grantaire gives in, hiding her smile, and places Enjolras’s hands on her butt, sighing happily and wiggling back into the warmth. Enjolras squeezes in excitement and hugs her closer.

“I love you,” she repeats firmly.

“I have no idea if you’re talking to me or my ass, but I love you too.”

“I’m-”

Enjolras never gets to finish because the door opens, and Musichetta walks in.

“The mission was a success,” she says, phrasing it like a statement rather than a question.

“Yes,” Grantaire replies before giving a summary of what happened, and Musichetta nods in silent approval.

“I take it that pairing you two up was one of my better ideas.”

She glances down at Grantaire’s hand, still wearing her wedding ring, where it rests against Enjolras’s chest. Grantaire blushes a tell-tale pink until it deepens into a full-blown inferno. She pouts and nuzzles against her partner’s neck while Enjolras curls an arm protectively around her waist.

“Anyway, I just wanted to congratulate you two on a job well done, and I’ll let you… talk now. Just make sure to get some rest later,” Musichetta says with a wink, and then she is gone in a heartbeat.

“Uh, let’s talk,” Grantaire mumbles before looking up and smiling at Enjolras. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better, but I’ll be fine,” she replies. “Must we make this pointless small talk?”

“What would you like to talk about then?” Grantaire asks. “You’re thinking about something.”

“I can come up with a million other things to do with our mouths… like kissing, for instance.”

Enjolras grins hopefully at her partner, who rolls her eyes, but leans in to do exactly that. Kissing Enjolras’s smile is like coming home, Grantaire thinks. She caresses her partner’s cheeks tenderly and cradles her head in her hands while Enjolras hugs her torso.

“I’m kinda sad it’s over, but now we can get our own apartment and adopt a cat,” Enjolras muses absentmindedly before she hurriedly adds, “If you want, of course. I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep without you next to me after all we’ve been through.”

“It would be an honor to move in with you and obtain a feline,” Grantaire replies, giving her nose a tiny peck. “We can even name the cat Louis.”

Enjolras glares at her playfully and says, “We are _not_ naming a cat Louis, or I’ll fake-divorce you. That’s terribly offensive to the cat.”

“What about Jean then?”

“I can think of a million ways how that could go wrong.”

“Meowna Lisa. Venus de Meowlo. Fluffy Cat of Samothrace.”

“I’m not going to lie, those are pretty cute. Fuck, _you’re_ pretty and cute,” Enjolras says emphatically. “I love you so much.”

“Not as much as I love you~” Grantaire teases in a sing-song voice.

Enjolras accepts that this is an argument she won’t win, so she just squeezes her partner’s butt in retaliation and to express just how much she loves her. Grantaire tucks herself in the crook of Enjolras’s elbow and gazes up into her eyes. They stare at each other for a moment, exhausted and elated all at once, before they fall into a peaceful and dreamless sleep together.

The question of what they will name a cat still hangs in the air, unanswered, but they have time. They just demolished an underground criminal gang and the politician they were hired by, defying all laws of fate. Finding a name for their future cat is a challenge that they can overcome later.

* * *

“Ow,” Grantaire moans, a couple weeks later. They have settled in a new apartment, obtained a cat, and are thriving in the limbo between assignments.

“You good?” Enjolras asks, concerned, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

“Giving self-defense lessons to Cosette has taken a toll. I think I might be getting old, darling.”

“We’re in our twenties.”

“We’re also an old married couple, so.”

Enjolras sighs and retrieves a stool from the kitchen, the one that Grantaire uses to reach the higher cabinets when her girlfriend isn’t around. Setting it in front of the couch, she indicates for her to sit, so Grantaire obeys, albeit with a little curiosity in her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak but immediately finds herself melting under strong hands. Once the ache in her back lessens, the rubbing turns into more of a gentle caress. She tilts her head up for a kiss, eyes still closed in bliss, and Enjolras kisses her plush mouth.

“I can give you a proper one if you want to move this into the bedroom.”

Grantaire nods enthusiastically, so Enjolras picks her up and drops her unceremoniously onto their fluffy bed. Their cat, dubbed Monsieur Whiskers or Whiskey, for short, after long debates and a compromise, stretches out next to her.

“Aaah!” Grantaire exclaims, sinking a few millimeters into the mattress. She steps out of her heels and unzips her dress, stripping until she is left only in her underwear and looking back at Enjolras to gauge her expression. She rests assured that she can still surprise her partner.

Immediately, Enjolras reaches for her, giving her a soft kiss before turning her over onto her belly. Grantaire relaxes into the massage, moaning in pleasure when Enjolras runs heavy hands over the length of her body, digging into her calf muscles and the soles of her feet. They trail upwards over the backs of her thighs and to her butt, making sure to spend some extra time there. Grantaire flops bonelessly when Enjolras moves to turn her back over, mouth curled in a lazy smile.

“You have magic hands,” she slurs, in a haze that sounds almost drunken.

“Thanks, I think,” Enjolras replies, maneuvering her against the pillows. “Better?”

“Mmm.”

“I’ll take that as a resounding ‘yes’ then.”

“Mmm.”  
  


“Meow,” Whiskey says, and Enjolras gives him a pet before he flees the bedroom. This is the perfect moment for sexytimes, Grantaire all pliant and loose, but Enjolras decides against it, pulling the blankets up to their chins for an afternoon nap. Naps are good. Grantaire snores softly in agreement.

They manage to sleep for a solid half-hour before the phone on the nightstand buzzes noisily, so Enjolras blinks awake and checks the caller. Musichetta. Well, she knows what that means.

“Evening, ‘Chetta. What’s my next assignment?”

“To kiss R awake. Yes, I can tell that she’s snuffling next to you. Cute, isn’t she?” Musichetta says on the other side of the line. “Don’t scowl at me. You can’t deny it or pretend to be jealous, so you do as I told you to. Five minutes. I’ll wait.”

Enjolras sets her phone down, muting it, and takes Grantaire into her arms. She mumbles something unintelligible and wiggles closer, fluffy hair sweeping over one shoulder. It pools in Enjolras’s hands like silk, falling through her fingers in the loveliest way possible.

“R, my love, wake up.”

Grantaire snoozes on.

“I guess I’ll have to take it to the next level,” Enjolras murmurs, hovering over her. She kisses her sweetly until Grantaire’s lips move against hers. Enjolras pulls back to watch her wake up fully, admiring the way her cheek is adorned with a crease from the pillow and how her long lashes stick together when she tries opening her eyes.

“M’what time is it? Is it morning already? I wanna sleep.”

Okay, Musichetta is absolutely correct in calling her cute. Enjolras kisses her cheek and trails her lips to her ear. Grantaire hums in contentment.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. ‘Chetta is calling.”

Grantaire sits up and rubs her eyes adorably before yawning, also adorably, and reaching for the phone. She unmutes it and puts it on speaker.

“Yeah?”

“I’m assuming you’re on speaker, so I’m just going to tell both of you at once. Your next assignment…”

When she ends the call, Enjolras smiles at Grantaire, who returns it, fully awake and vibrating with excitement. No matter how much they love this domesticity, nothing can compare to the thrill of the hunt. They pull on clothes and weapons, ready to start this as soon as possible. It is a good thing they’re both well-rested, as this job should be able to be completed overnight. In the meantime, Monsieur Whiskers can be watched over and fed by Éponine and Cosette, whom he has a rather strange attachment to, while Enjolras and Grantaire go chasing after their target.

And even better: they don’t even need to try to pretend to be married for this assignment when they basically are already.

In reality, they still are not married (yet), but it’s really the sentiment that counts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D


	6. Too Much Love Will Kill You (Epilogue)

“R?” Enjolras asks into the darkness, not sure what to expect. In a worst-case scenario, she might have to save her wife from their enemies. When Grantaire doesn’t reply to her call, she thinks that maybe their opponents are cleverer than they might let on.

She reaches out to feel along the wall, finding the light switch and flicking it on. It reveals Grantaire sitting in the middle of the room, tied up and gagged. In a heartbeat, two people lunge at her, taking advantage of her moment of hesitation, and Enjolras goes down, fighting.

“Oh, my loves, you’ve killed me!” Enjolras exclaims melodramatically, pulling her children down to her chest and making them yelp. She looks back up when she hears Grantaire’s muffled giggles as she unties the rope binding her hands together before peeling the tape off her mouth.

Little Alexandre and Adrienne high-five each other proudly.

“Mission accomplished!” they cheer, and Enjolras smiles at them. Tiny assassins, those two. She glances up at her wife, who is already looking back at her with shining blue eyes.

“Soon you’ll be good enough to dismantle the government,” Grantaire says, booping them both on the nose. “And your mother will be very proud of you.”

“I knew I married you for a reason,” Enjolras jokes. “And had these two munchkins.”

She reaches up to stroke their hair, and they nuzzle against her chest. Grantaire lies down on the carpet next to them and kisses her wife’s cheek. In return, Enjolras takes her left hand and presses her lips against the ring adorning her finger, this time one that isn’t rigged. It has been a decade since that fateful mission, and she is still in awe that Grantaire accepted her real proposal seven years ago.

“You must be tired,” Enjolras tells the kids, and they both vehemently deny it.

In reality, she wants to put them both to bed, so she can have some quality cuddle time with her wife, who looks every bit the assassin she is in an oversized sweater that has definitely been stolen from the other side of the closet, and fuzzy cat slippers. Grantaire has no right making Enjolras fall in love with her over and over again.

They each pick up a tiny human to tuck under the covers after raining a flurry of kisses upon them. Once she turns off the lights, Enjolras slides an arm around Grantaire’s waist, and they prepare for bed too. Well, bed as in lazily making out under the covers and having rousing discussions about morals and humanity until midnight. She plucks Patria off the bed, making her meow indignantly before she calms down and darts outside.

“Mmm,” Grantaire hums when Enjolras kisses her softly. Before she can deepen the kiss, the door creaks open.

Enjolras reaches under her pillow and curls her fingers around the hilt of the dagger she keeps there, but sighs in relief to find that the figures that appear in the doorway are only Alexandre and Adrienne.

“We’re scared,” Alex says, speaking for them both. Adri nods from her spot behind him, trying to peek over his shoulder.

In the darkness, Grantaire hides her grin into the blankets before sitting up and patting the space on the bed between herself and her wife.

Enjolras pouts at her because this is time that they could be using to have fun. No matter. Cuddling her kids is always fun too. In one smooth movement, both Alex and Adri jump into their bed and slide the covers up to their chins. The king-sized bed is just big enough for the four of them, but they all squish in as closely as possible for warmth.

“Good night,” Adri mumbles from where she is snuggled against Grantaire’s chest. Enjolras’s heart melts at seeing her wife and daughter, so oddly similar in both hair and eyes, and drops a kiss into her son’s blond hair. Running back in, their cat leaps onto the bed and curls up on the pillow above them.

Their family is just the cutest.

* * *

“Enjolras? Oh my God!” Grantaire screeches when Adrienne runs past with a knife. “What the f- _heck?_ ”

Her wife walks into the room sheepishly and shrugs, “They got into The Drawer?”

Grantaire puts her hands on her hips and glares at her accusingly. The Drawer is… a drawer that holds enough weapons to equip a small army with its wide array of throwing knives, firearms, poisoned accessories, and hand grenades in disguise. Perfectly illegal. It’s also supposed to be double-locked, triple-locked with fingerprint recognition and all sorts of fancy scan technology. Simply a collective housewarming present from their friends.

“And you didn’t happen to help them get into it?”

Alex pokes his head into the room and pipes up, “Maman unlocked The Drawer.”

“And the number one rule is to never give your accomplices away,” Enjolras chides, ruffling her son’s hair. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I gave them the practice blades.”

“Which are still sharp!”

Grantaire stands her ground, even when Enjolras sidles up to her and folds her into a loving embrace. However, her frown begins to melt as Enjolras continues to wheedle with her, kissing her cheeks and nose.

“Aww, don’t be like that, love. It’s never too early to let them start practicing.”

“Adri is five years old!”

“And how old were you when you started training?” Enjolras asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Irrelevant,” Grantaire huffs, burrowing her face in her wife’s chest.

“Ergo, they should start learning.”

“Not when they can injure themselves,” Grantaire protests. “Just give them a few more years and then we can train them together.”

“Deal,” Enjolras says after a moment of consideration and seals the compromise with a kiss to her lips. God, she loves it when Grantaire gets all diplomatic.

“Good. Now we need to take care of these two rascals before anything else happens.”

Predictably, Adrienne complains when Enjolras takes that knife away, but quietens after getting a stern talking-to that weapons aren’t toys, no matter how much they enjoy watching her perform all sorts of tricks with her blades.

“I just wanna be cool like you,” she says.

Enjolras sighs, “I’m not that cool. Your other mother is cooler. Besides, I did a stupid and let you guys play with things that can hurt you.”

Grantaire lifts Adri into her arms and pecks her round cheek. She winds her tiny hands in black curls in response, holding on.

“That’s a lie, darling. You’re definitely cooler,” she tells Enjolras and directs her next question at her daughter. “Have I shown you the pictures of her in a suit?”

Blue eyes go huge, so Grantaire walks away with her daughter bouncing in her arms, still talking about how awesome her wife is while said wife stares fondly at her retreating back. Enjolras looks down when she feels a tug on her pants.

“Will you tell me the story of how you met again?” Alex asks, widening his eyes pleadingly. She bends down to look him in the eyes and narrows her eyes suspiciously.

“Again?”

Alex, being the sweet boy he is, hugs Enjolras’s face and says, “I just really like it. It’s so romantic!”

It is a bit bizarre for a seven-year-old to think about romance, but he has always been ridiculously smart and perceptive. Enjolras blames the time he spends with Combeferre for that. She plops down into a chair and pulls Alex into her lap, squeezing his middle. After a moment, Grantaire and Adri come back into the living room and sit down in the chair across from them.

“Well, it started with a hotel and two oblivious fools who didn’t know that they were in love…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's the end of this one! As always, I eagerly eat up anything you have to offer, be it kudos, comments, or just you secretly enjoying it.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my Tumblr [here](http://cx-shhhh.tumblr.com/)! I post a lot of memes and stuff, so maybe something will catch your interest. Feel free to send me an ask or rant about how adorable Grantaire is.
> 
> In addition, join the [hoes for enjolras](https://discord.com/invite/vERrqvA) server to talk or something.


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